


Rhaegar's Song

by SheNeverWantedToLeave



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate season 8, F/M, Fix-It, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Slightly Smutty, Slightly slow burn, mostly jonerys-centric with many other elements, so much love, the jonerys that was promised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-05-15 19:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 167,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19301977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheNeverWantedToLeave/pseuds/SheNeverWantedToLeave
Summary: The Army of the Dead marches south, and Jon is failing in his mission to persuade the Dragon Queen to join his cause to defend the living. Romantic and political tensions loom and their time is running out.





	1. Part I - Dragonstone

**Author's Note:**

> *Compliant through all seasons minus a couple things from season 7 (one of which you will see in this chapter).  
> *Alternate S8  
> *Takes place at the very end of S7. I kept some of the same or similar dialogue here and there.  
> *Mostly Jon and/or Daenerys-centric, sharing points of view, with eventual POV of other characters :). I will go down with this ship and wish we had more of it in the show.  
> *My first published fic in ages; I genuinely hope you enjoy it! Thank you for reading, and I hope you'll stay tuned for the rest!

In the early morning, prior to dawn, Jon Snow sat up groggily from his bed. The wood in the fireplace was on its last limb, crackling faintly as it burnt out. The outside cast a deep blue light onto the stone floor of his Dragonstone quarters, and he guessed he must have only slept a few hours.

Since arriving to Dragonstone a little over a month ago, he and his men had been mining the dragonlass around the clock. They came with an utmost importance to join their alliances with Daenerys Targaryen and her impressive army, but thus far it had been a much-failed attempt in that regard. It was so bad, in fact, that she lost Viserion in the midst of coming to Jon's aid when he and his comrades thought it wise to capture a wight at Eastwatch. It was all to convince Cersei that the Lannister army was needed in the North more than ever, to which she verbally agreed to.

One week had passed since returning to Dragonstone from King's landing, and though Jon had begun feeling more confident in their efforts against the dead, that feeling was rapidly diminished when he received a raven from Bran just hours ago. He had been having a friendly conversation with Tyrion Lannister, reviving their journeys of how they each got to where they are now, when they were approached hastily by Varys. Varys did not often move so quickly, but the message was dire, which meant he had read the scroll addressed to Jon before it even reached Jon's own eyes.

He had read it aloud, short and brief as it was: "Jon, the Wall is breached. The Night King rides south. We must move forward at once. Bran".

Jon read and re-read the words over and over again as if they would somehow morph into something different; give him better news. The room fell silent for a long moment, the only sound was the roaring snap of the fire.

As Jon sat currently on his furs, he heaved a heavy sigh. Daenerys had been asleep in her chambers when the scroll came to his attention, and they felt she could use one more decent sleep before being told the news. As Jon felt entirely responsible for his trek beyond the wall, he made both Varys and Tyrion swear they wouldn't utter a word to her. He wanted to be the one to break the news, as much as he wished he could avoid the entire thing. Though he so far had been ineffective, he wanted to make her understand why it wasn't only his war. Unless he bent the knee to her, she wouldn't budge.

After they had returned to Dragonstone and Jon was recovering from his near-drowning in the frozen lake, Dany had stayed at his bedside until she knew he would wake. His heart had felt broken that she lost one of her children in place of his life, and he could only apologize repeatedly, wishing he could take it all back. She had tried her best to remain queenly and not give in to her emotions, but when it was only the two of them, she allowed herself to weep. He had held her hand tight, feeling more helpless than he had in recent memory.

She had explained to him that there was no reason to forgive him as she was doing what was right, and she now understood his cause having seen the Army of the Dead with her own eyes. And even then, in the midst of her mourning, she didn't feel she could risk her other children or more of her army to go to Winterfell. While it shattered most of Jon's hope for the survival of the North, he did not argue. The idea to bring the proof to Cersei was induced by Tyrion while Jon volunteered to be the one to go amidst a group of hardy men. Yet when Gendry was sent back to Daenerys seeking help, she did so despite everything.

When he first came into her company the first day, he would have gladly butted heads with her until she cracked if he could get that far. However, much had changed in that span of time, and they remained friendly with one another despite their frequent spats.

That, and the looming feeling that erupted in his chest when they found themselves alone together. It was a tiring thing to remain political and convince a complete stranger who had massive power in her defenses, to help him defeat what used to be known as old tales, but harbor conflicting romantic emotions as well. Thus far, he was able to keep it at bay, but there were several moments where he could have sworn they were on that same wavelength.

He procrastinated dressing himself - he was likely the only person awake on the island, anyhow. Throwing a tunic over his bare top, he fit his leathers over himself and tied his unruly hair into a knot at the back of his head.

As he exited his chamber, thoughts flooded his head as he began drawing a mental outline of what was to come. A timeline hadn't been initiated in how long he would be staying here - if anything, he was much less than eager to leave than the first day he landed on the beach - but with the Night King and his army making progress...he would be departing much sooner than expected. At the very least, they mined double the dragonglass than anticipated with their extended stay. But they would be departing without Dany and her armies and dragons, and he feared what Sansa and the North would think of him then. His remaining hope was the houses loyal to house Stark still felt that way and would pledge themselves to defend his home.

Amongst all the grim news, he would soon be reunited with his remaining family after years of assuming they were dead. Arya, with her mussed hair and her Needle, who was thought long dead after their father had been executed. Bran, likely the most underestimated...what his life had been like from a crippled boy to the Three-Eyed Raven. The last time Jon had laid eyes on him was when he was departing for the Night's Watch, and Bran hadn't yet woken from his unconscious state. At the time, Jon and most everyone else didn't think he would awaken.

Jon was abruptly disrupted when he looked up to find Tyrion sitting alone in the Chamber of the Painted Table, tapping a scroll against the stone. He looked contemplative.  


"Another raven?" Jon croaked, his voice hoarse from lack of use in some hours. He sat opposite Tyrion, trying to read his face. When his eyes fell upon the scroll, the lettering confirmed it for him.

"Evidently, my brother is riding for Winterfell," Tyrion said quietly so as to not echo his voice down the halls.

Silence, and then Jon nodded. "That's good news. Finally."

Another beat, and Tyrion's mournful eyes found Jon's dark ones. "Jon, my brother rides for Winterfell. There is no mention of a Lannister army behind him."

The realization sunk in then, though Jon still furrowed his brow. "Perhaps he wanted to get there first. It would be quicker than-"

"What I'm trying to say is Cersei lied." The frankness in Tyrion's voice took Jon by surprise. "I'm sorry. She swore it, and I should have known better. We should have known."

Gritting his teeth, Jon abandoned his seat to peer out into the foggy chilled air. It looked as if a storm would brew any minute. He could barely make out the silhouettes of the dragons flying about, likely collecting their breakfast. "We're fucked."

Tyrion made an uncertain gesture with his head, though Jon's attention wasn't on him. "You still have time to convince our Queen, stubborn as she may be..."

Shaking his head, Jon clenched and relaxed his jaw, closing his eyes. "She can't be swayed. I've tried nearly every day we've been here, and I've been fortunate in that she did not toss us to the sea the moment we walked in."

Tapping his fingers on the table, Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain you've tried everything to sway her?"

That comment received a look that could pierce bone from Jon, as he retreated back to the table. "I'm not that kind of man. And I doubt she is that kind of woman."

"No, you're not...which makes you infinitely better than the rest of us. Now I gift you with the duty of serving Daenerys with all of this terrible news." With that, Tyrion hopped off of his chair and toasted his goblet of wine that Jon only now realized he had been holding.

Jon sat in his own company for a long while, undecided of how to tell Daenerys everything without sounding as if he were begging for her help. The approach was another issue...did he go to her chambers, or wait for her to seek him once she woke? He didn't wish to throw it upon her before her day even began, but time was of the essence now. He would have to depart by evening.

The sun was just hovering above the hazy sea-line before he mustered up the courage to go to Dany's chambers. The anticipation was beginning to eat at him. Once he approached her stone door, he took a moment to marvel at the etchings of dragons and ornate curvatures. It made him feel more sick in his stomach - the Targaryen's, undoubtedly, were affectionately obsessed with their dragons. He rose his fist and knocked. He could just barely hear two voices and there was a long pause before the door only cracked open.

Missandei stood peeking through, shielding the inside view with her body. "Lord Snow," she greeted with a nod, half announcing to Daenerys somewhere behind her.  


"May I speak with your queen?" He asked gruffly, his eyes flicking ever so often over her shoulder, but nothing gave way.

"She is indecent at the moment - I will fetch you as soon as she is dressed." With a friendly, quick smile, Missandei gently closed and latched the door behind her. Jon waited with bated breath, though it wasn't long before he was allowed in. Missandei padded her way to where Daenerys sat in a chair as Missandei continued to put her silver locks together. Daenerys was freshly bathed, her cheeks slightly pinkened from the warmth, and she was dressed in simple but beautiful off-white silks wrapped asymmetrically from shoulder to legs.

Just for one short moment Jon's breath caught in his throat as he gaped her no-maintenance beauty. It didn't go unnoticed - Dany's eyebrow raised at his gawking. Jon forced himself to look at anything else in the room - floor, wall, bed...luckily for him, the entire castle was to intricately designed, it wasn't a complete fabrication to wish to admire its handcrafted work.

"Is something the matter, Lord Snow?" Daenerys quipped; he could have sworn even Missandei allowed herself a smirk. Jon felt hot, though perhaps it was the lingering temperature of her bath water.

"Is it a private matter? I can dismiss Miss-"

"No," he interjected gently, unsure of what to do with his hands as he stood before her curious gaze. "No, in fact probably everyone should hear it. But not without you knowing first." He sucked in a silent, deep breath. "Last night I received a letter from my brother, Bran. You'll remember soon after I first arrived, he would keep me informed of everything happening at Winterfell, and he has become this...all-seeing, Three-Eyed Raven."

With a nod from Dany, he continued, wishing he didn't have to. "The Night King and his army breached the wall...I'm not quite sure how; I assume Bran will fill in the gaps once I've returned." He toned down his voice to a near whisper at the end.

Dany's face was difficult to read. In fact she barely flinched for what felt like hours, but slowly the realization seeped in. Missandei's hands slowed.

"I just thought you should know," he said quietly. "I feel I may have wasted your time coming here."

"We've already had this conversation. Your visit was not a waste, and your cause is not lost on me...I just don't feel it would be a just decision to ask my men, and risk my remaining children, to divert my purpose...their purpose. I made a promise to my men. They are free men who decided, on their own free-will, to fight alongside me. And in return I promised their ultimate freedom once I took the Iron Throne and defeated Cersei. While I don't doubt they would follow me to the edge of the continent and beyond, I can't find it within me to delay this promise if it means I may lose many of them in the process. Do you understand? I was glad to agree to a truce with Cersei should she agree to send her army north. I am happy to offer you whatever resources you need...but I fear Cersei only grows stronger the longer I sit still."

Her voice was not unkind. At times it was stern, but there was compassion as well. It did cut deep, though - even though she would not march to Winterfell alongside him, they had come to a mutual agreement with Cersei that she would not close in on her while Cersei was weakened as the Lannisters rode north.

"I understand. But I do have another bit that came in this morning. Tyrion received another raven. Jaime Lannister rides to defend the North, sending word ahead of him that Cersei doesn't intend to send her army with him."

After he broke the news to her, the temper that he sometimes witnessed himself when he was being difficult with her had flared. It was all a change of expression and very little words.

"I'm beginning to wonder if this has all been Tyrion's master plan, after all," she said through almost gritted teeth, but as Missandei completed her braiding, she sat her back up straighter.

"He didn't look as if he knew this would happen when I came upon him this morning. In fact, he was drinking wine before the sun rose," Jon added in a very half-hearted attempt at humor, a rarity. It did seem to soften Dany's face somewhat.

"Wine is an extension of Tyrion's body at this point," Dany added with a tug at the corner of her lip.

Missandei quietly departed the room once Dany's braids were bound, closing the door quietly behind her. There was a heavy silence, and Jon was beginning to feel the heat of the room again. When Dany was otherwise preoccupied, he took a moment to admire her side profile, but diverted his eyes when she shifted to stand and face him.

"I expect you'll be needed back home sooner rather than later." It was less a question and more a formal statement. With Missandei out of the room, her body loosened as she became more visibly comfortable in his presence without outside company. It made him feel a little more important, but moreso glad that they weren't always at each others' throats as they were before. Even so, it felt indecent to be alone with her in her chambers behind a closed door.

Jon nodded a bit solemnly. "I suppose I should be happy to see my family again, before the dead take them from me." He didn't intend to sound so downtrodden, but the look on her face made him realize he sounded much like a pessimist. Dany's eyebrows curved sympathetically at his retort.

"And why wouldn't you be? What I would give to have any family left." An innocent comment that instantly put Jon's thoughts in perspective. Her violet-hued eyes bore into him as if she could see through him. Still, he smiled a little.

"Aye. I've had much of my own taken from me, but I'm lucky to have any to welcome me home. If it makes you feel any better, most of my family either hated me or were disinterested in me all my life, until I left for the Night's Watch. A bastard's life can be as lonely as an orphan's."

"I know we're not competing for worst family in the realm, but the only family I had for years was my brother, Viserys. Whom I wholly believed I would wed and bear children with, who beat me and berated me at the drop of a pebble." Her voice remained stable, and the words came as easily as if she had recited them many times before. It made Jon sad. When he opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by a loud clap of thunder.

"I should probably get my men ready before the seas get too dangerous out there," he announced, though the flashes of lightning weren't making it promising sailing weather.

"Are you sure? Would it not be terribly dangerous?" Jon was almost at her door when she called out to him. "You and your men are more than welcome another night if it means you'll get to Winterfell in one piece."

With his hand on the door handle, he contemplated her offer. What harm would another night be in relative terms? The Night King's army moved slow, and likely they would have at least a week before his impending arrival.

"Alright. Just one more night." With that agreement, he missed the prideful smile on Dany's face as he exited her room, set on sending a raven to Bran that he would be departing for home at dusk.


	2. Part II - Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes his final plea. Daenerys and Tyrion have a long conversation.

The afternoon passed quickly, and the storms slowly. Before the downpour of rain, the northmen were able to load their dragonglass onto the ship that Dany kindly was lending to them for their voyage as a sort of parting gift. The small boat they came in on was no contender for the weight of the men plus the dragonglass; they would surely sink to their deaths.

Later that evening, Jon met briefly with Ser Davos to discuss a plan for when they arrived at Winterfell. Jon had been corresponding with Sansa to monitor provisions for them, and they had recently received several notices of the northern houses remaining loyal to House Stark and would fight for the living as well. It made Jon sigh with cautious relief, even if they weren't entirely out of the woods in terms of numbers.

"Lady Sansa also says they have begun digging the trenches and will barricade the walls of Winterfell with whatever dragonglass remains after the weapons are forged. It's too bad we couldn't find a quicker way to get that over to Gendry, get a head start," Ser Davos quipped as he rolled up the scroll.

"He has been forging with iron until we arrive, and said he could mold dragonglass onto those as well if necessary." Jon leaned into the table, wishing they had a map of Winterfell sprawled before them to align their army ranks.

Davos collected his arms behind his back and looked up at Jon's brooding expression. "No luck with the dragon queen then, hm?" The volume of his voice was nearly inaudible.

With a shake of his head, Jon peered out the window to the stormy seas. After a few more moments, they parted ways. Later that evening, he joined some company at the dining table where Tyrion suggested they drink until they could forget their looming dangers ahead.

Greyworm and Missandei excused themselves, to which Daenerys happily obliged their request for much-warranted privacy. Varys had no interest in becoming belligerent, so he went off to walk amongst the halls by himself. Ser Davos cited his age as an excuse, but really only wanted to get some early shut-eye before their departure come the morning.

That left Jon, Dany, and Tyrion to themselves. Tyrion hauled over three pitchers of ale and three goblets, as Dany stared at him incredulously. "I'm unsure if drinking until you have hit the floor is considered  _fun_ ," Dany proposed, glancing briefly at Jon for confirmation. She opted for her own sweet wine cupped in her hand. The taste of ale only made her recoil.

Jon smirked, resting his elbows on the table opposite Dany. "I suspect at least two of those are for you," he nodded in Tyrion's direction. Tyrion snorted.

"As much as I wish to hoard this all to myself and drown my sorrows, I refuse to embarass myself in front of my queen." Tyrion tipped the pitcher as is dangerously wavered heavily in his small hands, until two goblets were filled and dispersed between himself and Jon.

As Dany held the chalice to her lips, she peered over to her Hand with her heavy-lidded eyes, playfully challenging. "Never stopped you before."

Her response made him silently toast his goblet in her direction before taking a long drink.

"What do you have to worry about? You don't have to face the dead," with a sip, Jon wiped at his mustache cleanly. Dany sipped her wine with grace, as if she dare not indulge herself.

Tyrion made a face and raised his goblet as if to cheer Jon next. "You're right, I have far worse to deal with. My own sister. I might ask to trade places with you by night's end."

A nod of agreement met with sympathy from Jon at his retort. The sound of rain smacking against the exterior walls of Dragonstone echoed through the surrounding halls.

"Which, by the way," Tyrion continued, but not before a long swig from his cup, "we still have yet to discuss a plan of attack." His eyes fell upon Dany.

"I did not wish to overexert Drogon and Rhaegal; they needed some time to rest before making the flight to King's Landing. What would my Hand advise?" Dany took a longer drink.

Tyrion tapped his fingers along the carved wooden table, flinching at the whipping crack of thunder. "We still have the Iron Fleet to worry about. Euron is no novice with the scorpion, as Varys' remaining little birds tell us. He will likely be waiting for us in Blackwater Bay. Oh, let us not forget that my dear sister has somehow, in all her glorious power, managed to buy the services of the Golden Company.  _Add to that_ , that they have elephants." His arms lifted in a shrug as if it was one of the most ridiculous piece of news he had all day.

Dany raised an eyebrow. "Elephants? I had heard of them in Astapor when I was there. Surely they are no match for two full grown dragons."

Jon quite admired this playful banter before giving his input. "They wouldn't be much of a threat to the dragons, but to those on foot...it will not help your men. My old nan used to share stories with us as children. Or rather, it reached my ears second-handedly. They were mostly brushed off as tales to scare the children, but as I grow older, I realize they aren't really tales at all. She once said these elephants could kill hundreds of men with one toss of its head. Their hide is thicker than leather, but not comparable to a dragon's scales."

"Riveting..." Another chug by Tyrion, who appeared to drink deeper as they spoke further of Dany's King's Landing descent. "Depending on where Cersei will have her men stationed, we could impregnate the city through all, or most, of its seven gates. Perhaps take the King's Road through the dragon gate as a start. It's further from the center of the city, but I feel confident that many of the Unsullied could handle the gold cloaks as they make their way inward. Your Grace, while I strongly do not advocate you flying Drogon into battle-" a slight narrowing of Dany's eyes tripped him up, though he was also beginning to string his words together. "If we could find a way to approach Euron before he's aware you've arrived, we could possibly desecrate his fleet. Have we any word from Yara?"

Dany was visibly pleased as she nodded. Jon listened intently, pouring himself a second ale while she continued on. "She intends to sail from the Iron Islands to meet Euron's Fleet. She says that Theon has returned to Winterfell to fulfill his duty in defending his adoptive home and family." While her eyes smiled over to Jon, who had only just now received this information, there appeared to be a drop of sadness in her face too.

"It's only right that he does. He made foul decisions, nearly killed my two little brothers years ago and betrayed my brother Robb." Jon's eyes gazed into the candle light reflecting the deep amber in his cup. "But he saved Sansa's life, and for that I am grateful."

Before anyone could speak again, Tyrion's body slumped and within a frighteningly short amount of time; he was unconscious. Jon had felt quite a tingle in his fingers as well; the conversation caused him enough distraction to drink more than he meant given that he would be leaving first thing.

"I feel that I've lost any sensation in my legs," Dany mumbled, her eyelids droopier than they were not an hour ago.

Sputtering a laugh, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and attempted to stand, but barely got his legs straight before plunking back onto his seat. This caused an eruption of laughter from Daenerys, to which Jon reciprocated quietly, studying this rarely exposed bit of her. He had hardly seen her laugh at all, particularly after the loss of Viserion; oftentimes it was just as hard to garner a smile.

Once she was able to breathe normally again, she caught Jon watching her, but focused her eyes down into her empty goblet.

"You're sure of your decision to move on Cersei so soon, then?" He asked gruffly, just a hint of anguish in his voice.

Nodding, Dany did not look up. "I am. This has been my destiny since I knew what destiny was. It's best to act now before Cersei finds a way to acquire an even larger army than she has."

There was a hesitation from Jon, but his eyes never left her face. "And if the dead win? What will you do then?"

That response initiated her to turn to face him. He was unsure how to read it: anger or bewilderment that she hadn't considered this an option.

"Then I suppose I will have to take care of them once I remove Cersei from the throne."

Jon was unsure if the anger rising in him was influenced by the alcohol, but he was beginning to feel the heat begin to bubble as it had so many times before when they were about to begin an argument. "We don't even know if dragon fire can  _kill_ the Night King. He created the army of the dead; if we kill him, they all die. If he takes Winterfell, he will make his way south, and  _thousands_ more innocent lives will die only to follow behind him. If he takes the North, there is no hope for the South."

Tyrion was beginning to stir from the table, but only for a second. Dany was adjusting herself into a straighter position, which she often did when she was needing to speak politically and defend herself. "You say you don't know if dragon fire can kill the Night King, but you've come here regardless to persuade me to bring my dragons to him? You refuse to bend the knee, yet you almost expect me to risk all of my life's work for you. I'm beginning to wonder if this was meant to be an alliance at all!"

That about tipped Jon over as he stood abruptly to his feet. "I am a man of my word; I am cursed with my father's inability to  _not_ be honorable to my word. I ask you to join me because it is not  _my_ cause, it is yours too; the cause of the realm. There will  _be_ no iron throne to take if the dead win. He is hundreds of thousands strong - probably more than we know even as we sit here. But if we had your armies and your dragons, it would give us and everyone a far better chance to survive. Aye, we don't know if the Night King can be killed by dragon fire, it has never been attempted before, but how will we know if we don't try?"

Amidst his flaring temper, Dany had risen, her eyebrows wrought with contempt, and Tyrion had woken so quickly he nearly fell out of his seat. Jon's voice was nearing a beg in the end - his eyes bore into Daenerys as a last attempt to convince her. Her body language told him all he needed to know.

With a small nod of defeat, his head swimming, he averted his attention to the floor. "I should get some rest, else I won't be fit for travel tomorrow." Jon's gravelly voice was so quiet it was nearly a whisper.

Tyrion studied Dany from where he sat in his stupor. If he were a betting man, he would have wagered all he had in that the softness of her face now was not of pride as she watched Jon disappear around the corner.

\---

The remote screeching of dragons shook Jon out of a light sleep. He bolted upright in his bed, eyes searching for clues outside, but the sun had yet to reach the horizon. He exhaled a deep breath, standing to his feet and walking over to the open archway that led to a balcony which overlooked what looked like the very ends of the sea. When he looked up toward the lightening sky, he saw Rhaegal soaring not too far overhead. Ever since Jon had arrived, the dragons never kept a far distance from wherever he may be, more especially Rhaegal. He was unsure if this was a defense mechanism to keep their mother safe from a stranger, or if perhaps they did trust his company and were offering affection.

A handful of times when he accompanied Daenerys to check on them to be sure they were eating and thriving, Jon would sometimes receive a nudge from Rhaegal against his chest. Daenerys had watched with eager anticipation, her face sometimes twisted in interest at just how warm Rhaegal was to Jon. She had explained to him that her dragons did not trust just anyone who came into her company, and it was quite alluring that hers took to Jon only a short amount of time after he had been a guest here.

They were beautiful beasts, but that did not stop their cries from chilling Jon to the bone. He was a bit somber that this would likely be the last time he would ever set eyes on them again, but a part of him couldn't wait to rub it in Arya's face once he was able to see his little sister again. He missed his family, but strangely felt torn with his decision to leave Dragonstone on such short notice, even amidst his outburst the night prior.

He began to clothe himself for the day and was soon with his men on the beach, fitting his gloves over his hands as Davos came into view. Daenerys and her crew were gathered close behind him. He was half surprised she even appeared to send him off, but supposed she wouldn't want anyone to start whispering if she hadn't.

As Davos helped load the last of the dragonglass onto the ship, Jon couldn't help but feel a sickness in his stomach. He encroached upon Dany's ancestral home, mined the caves to their heart's contentment, one of her dragons died in what felt like a hopeless voyage beyond the wall...and all for Cersei to betray them, even after witnessing the horror of a dead man within arms length of her own neck.

Jon leaned onto one foot as Daenerys approached him, hands clasped at her front, with Missandei, Greyworm, Varys, Ser Jorah, and Tyrion all behind her. There was a noticeably uncomfortable tension that he was certain everyone could feel in that moment.

"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace. If we never meet again, at least you won't have to deal with the King in the North anymore." said Jon neutrally, but not without uneasiness at their parting.

For a moment Dany found it hard to look into his face, until she finally did with melancholy eyes. Tyrion caught sight of this and he and Varys shared a look. "I've grown used to him. Perhaps we will meet again."

Jon's initial response was going to be that he would likely be dead soon, but he feared a re-occurrence of their last heated conversation. "Perhaps."

With a gentle smile, Jon made his goodbyes to the rest of the council and retreated to the ship. Dany watched, eyes fallen heavy and distressed. As the ship was carried further out to sea, Drogon and Rhaegal cried out, soaring in wide circles overhead.  
  
\---

It wasn't until they reached the Chamber of the Painted Table that anyone spoke. Missandei had offered her friend a comforting touch on her shoulder - Dany had watched Jon's ship sail until it was fully out of sight. She placed herself on a chair near the fireplace which Tyrion began to stoke.

"Your Grace, may I offer you a relatively...blunt opinion?" Tyrion asked softly as he sat across her. She was gazing into the growing flames, her face unreadable, bordering anguished. The others in the group had gone off to do various other tasks.

"As Hand, you've never needed my permission to speak in such a manner before." While anyone else may have accepted her retort as snide, it brought a brief smile to Tyrion's face; she meant it well.

"I thought it might be more appropriate given recent events."

She turned curiously toward him but did not speak.

"Jon Snow," Tyrion began, speaking directly. The fire crackled and it comforted him in the slight chill. "I understand why you want to close in on Cersei as soon as you are able, and I do not blame you for this. However...might it not serve you even  _better_ to also have the North rally behind you? Show them what you are capable of, make them believe your purpose. Of course you have the advantage with two dragons and one of the greatest armies the world has seen in  _centuries_ ." He took a breath, allowing the information to seep into her head. 

"Let's be generous...maybe you could swarm King's Landing and maybe the people would support you. You are much loved in Essos; Cersei has no one but her own people to defend her. And even that is only by duty and the fear she instills in their hearts. She is very far from loved; in fact, I'm almost certain the only person last to love her was my dear ignorant brother, but with him leaving for Winterfell...anyway, why not make an effort to win the love of Westeros as well? It would be far more attractive to the people of King's Landing  _and_ each of the kingdoms knowing where you started, that you crossed the Narrow Sea and were able to captivate the hearts of the people in Westeros as well. You've said you wish to break the wheel. But simply encroaching on King's Landing all  _just_ because you have the power to do so likely would not rest well with most civilians, nor most lords in the realm."

There were a few seconds of silence as Dany contemplated this. "Is this your way of reminding me that I am the Mad King's daughter? Why would I have endured all that I have, ensured the betterment of the lives of the less fortunate. I did not come all this way to become Queen of the Ashes."

Tyrion made a gesture with his hand as if this was progress to his proposal. "No, and that is precisely why people love and admire you on the other side of the sea. It would be wise to do the same here, though I do expect they will not be won over in a fortnight. The North can be rather stubborn bastards. You may have to move mountains before they even consider looking at you."

"I already have cause to believe that, and that reason just left our company." Dany replied rather matter-of-factly. It didn't go unnoticed.

"You almost sound bitter, my queen. Could this have anything to do with the obvious fact you quite cherish this King in the North?"

If looks could kill, Tyrion would have been thrown into the fire just then had he not the authority that he did.

"What makes you think that? We could hardly be more opposite. A stranger from the North who comes storming my beaches, requesting and near demanding me to sacrifice all that I have built just to possibly lose it all against dead men."

Tyrion cast her a cautionary look, to which she pursed her lips and took a deep breath. "Hardly storming, Your Grace. Let us not forget that I was the one who sent his invitation by persuasion of the Lady Melisandre. Let's be fair here. Jon Snow asked for your help; yes, it is a great risk. But you were asking possibly the most honorable man in Westeros to pledge allegiance to a Southern ruler who is all but unknown to his people, except for the dreadful rumors that you are not unlike your father before you. A ruler whose father tortured and defiled Brandon and Rickard Stark, Jon's own uncle and grandfather. It's not entirely unfair for him to be at least a little unsure.”

He was treading dangerous territory now; he could see it when her lips parted and her teeth clenched. He continued delicately. “Reminding him that no child should be punished for the sins of their fathers was poignant and Jon made it clear that he took your word to heart.”

He took a step closer to her. “You saw those dead men...do you honestly believe that the North has a fleeting chance against them, given what you saw?" His voice was gentler still, but no less passionate.

Some silence passed; people roamed just outside the door, so their voices were lowered a level. Dany began picking at the arm rest. "I admit that I lack knowledge of designing battle mechanisms. But if I were to make a strong guess, with the Lannisters going back on their word...I do not feel they have much of a chance."

The mood became heavy and quite dismal while each of them thought of the North as overrun by the Night King and his army.

Clearing his throat, Tyrion wished he had brought some wine for the two of them. "And if the dead succeed in sacking Winterfell...? What of Jon Snow?"

Dany was catching on that should his motion to send her to Winterfell not succeed, toying with her emotions may. The reality was that is was starting to work, and she suddenly wished he was far less clever. "Can I trust that you are not unionizing with Cersei against me, unknown to me or anyone else?"

The question took Tyrion for such a turn, he became physically upset. His brow nearly conjoined. "Absolutely not, and you have my word on that, Your Grace. My sister is a vile, terrible, appalling human being. I've wished her dead more times than I can count. She could not be more opposite you, and I would never support a tyrant. That is why I remain here, with you."

The words touched Dany; with Tyrion's subsequent misjudgements in the recent past, she had begun to wonder who he was truly loyal to. She drew in a deep breath, feeling herself relax with the exhale. She was unsure how to answer his questions at this point.

"May I...ask one more question?" With a nod from Dany, Tyrion averted his eyes to the fire for a minute. "Do you have any romantic feelings for the King in the North?"

It was Dany's turn to be taken aback. As irritated as such a question was to her, she did feel at ease that they could have these honest conversations with one another. But this time she did not have a quick enough response, and the poor timing seemed to confirm Tyrion's suspicions. How she felt about Jon Snow was complicated; he was stubborn, undeniably determined, and unapologetically honest. But he was also loyal to a fault, charming in his own brooding way, and managed to ruffle Dany's feathers in more ways than she wanted to admit.

The only response she could think of at the time was "I do not know", but it far from convinced her Hand.

In fact, Tyrion released a snort-like guffaw which earned another look from Dany. "I think you do, but I suppose it is not entirely 'queenly' to have such thoughts. Have you not ever, even once, noticed how he looks at you versus anyone else in a room? Sometimes I don't think he even realizes it's not just you two. He has quite a hard exterior, but I believe he truly is very soft. He was kind enough to befriend me in the midst of our families at war. I rode with him north to the Wall the first time, when he would become a man of the Night's Watch."

Frustrated by his insistence to keep this topic alive, Dany could feel heat rising to her cheeks and she absolutely despised feeling so exposed. She found herself speechless yet again. “Perhaps you should be advising Jon Snow if you feel this passionately for him.”

Tyrion grinned, shaking his head. "He is a man who could use someone like you in his life. This is Jon Snow we're talking about here...he has probably been celibate since the day he was born a bastard; certainly after taking his vows in the Night's Watch. How long ago was that now? I suppose I shouldn't talk; I don't even have recent memory of the last time I..." he trailed off, Dany staring at him with the scorn a mother would for sharing such intimate and private details. He cleared his throat, feeling a bit warm himself. "Sorry, I suppose I got a bit carried away in the end there. "

They sat together in a silence that was stuck somewhere between tense and pleasant. The fire roared violently, and the pair of them insisted on avoiding any contact for a long while. Oh, how Tyrion wished he had wine in his hand. Given that she was beginning to look a little worse for wear, he lowered his voice and angled his head to see her.

“Would you like to know a secret that I was let in on only a couple of years back?” He asked gingerly, her attention turned to him, but still partly regarding the fire.

“You'll remember Lord Ned Stark, Jon's father. When Jon arrived in the throne room, you reminded him that Lord Stark was best friends with Robert Baratheon. Robert, who was going to stop at nothing to have you murdered, to assassinate every Targaryen who still breathed air. Including your brother and your unborn child once he got word you were with child. Varys was amongst Robert's small council as his spymaster, who employed Ser Jorah for Robert, though you're familiar with this story as well. One evening, the small council met and Robert suggested - no, _demanded –_ that Ned support his cause to send for your execution. It was in that moment that Ned resigned as Robert's hand in refusal, which could have meant forfeiting his life had they not had the friendship they did.”

Dany was visibly shaken; she remembers the assassination attempts, learning of Ser Jorah's hand in reporting back to Varys about her movements, the fear that had been injected into her head that no man was to be trusted. Even then, she would continue to be used and betrayed. When she returned her attention to Tyrion, his eyes were kind. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

Sighing, Tyrion shrugged. “Jon Snow is exactly as his father was. He is a good man with a noble heart. He is not unlike you, in more ways than you know. He would do anything for his people; he died for them and I believe would do so again, given his current circumstances and the odds against him in the war to come. He sailed here knowing full well you could have him sent away or imprisoned at your command. Yet he came anyway, because his purpose now is to keep his people safe and protected, and he had faith in a complete stranger.” Tyrion drew in a silent breath; Dany was transfixed was guarded still.

“You know,” he continued, “many say that honor is what got Ned Stark killed, which I do not contend with. But if you were to successfully enlist the respect of the northmen, I sincerely believe you would soon find the King in the North devoted to your purpose. And that is where I feel the real hope for this shit world lies; bringing ice and fire together.”

Daenerys was quiet, but far from angry while she weighed her options. Feeling he had overstayed his welcome, he gave his queen a bow and exited the room to leave Daenerys in her swimming thoughts.


	3. Part III - Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns home to his family and receives dire news.

"Open the gates!"

 As the gates of Winterfell swung open, Jon Snow cantered in upon his horse followed by the rest of his men. Trailing behind their horses were endless wagons loaded to the brim with dragonlass, but alas, no army as he had hoped. Once he passed beneath a stone archway, he looked ahead to see an image he never thought he would see again: the remnants of his family waiting eagerly for his return, flanked by many more friends and northmen. The only person missing was Arya.

At the sight of Bran, Jon felt he couldn't hop off of his horse fast enough to embrace him in the thickness of their furs. When they parted, his hand lingered against Bran's face, studying what he last remembered as a crippled, and possibly dead, boy. Bran's expression hadn't changed in the last few seconds since Jon's arrival. He attributed this to his newer abilities as a Three-Eyed-Raven, but it was unsettling even still.

"How did you get here? Against all odds?" Jon mused, his eyes alight with an overwhelming sense of happiness.

"I could ask you the same," Bran replied rather stone-like, but a small hint of a smile tugged his lips. Jon huffed and kissed Bran's forehead, lingering for a moment before getting back to his feet to embrace Sansa. After they parted, Jon could see the confusion on everyone's faces as the Winterfell gates closed once the rest of the wagons were brought in.

Jon directed his attention back to Sansa. "It's a bit of a long story. I'll tell you later. Where is Arya?"

Sansa considered him for a time, likely weighing what their next options were. She was frustrated. "I suppose she went out waiting for you." 

Jon couldn't suppress a smile, glancing down at his feet. The mood felt heavy, reminding him again of the weight of his failed attempt at Dragonstone. "Most of the loyal houses have pledged themselves to defend Winterfell. It will be a daunting task, but I suppose we will have to work with what we have."

Nodding, Jon looked back up at her. "Aye, at least we have that going for-"

Ghost came from the side behind Jon and had pinned him to the ground, violently licking Jon's face. Jon held his breath and pressed his lips tightly together, trying his best to wriggle free of the beast. Once he sat up, he ruffled the direwolf's thick neck fur. "You've grown since I left, boy." A crooked smile traveled up Jon's face as Ghost whined with affection, refusing to leave his side. 

\---

Once all formalities were done, Jon wished to visit the Weirwood tree before he would set out to find Arya. If he had to choose one person's journey he wanted to learn about the most, it would be hers. She was long thought dead and not one person in the world could recognize her.

When he approached the grim-faced Heart tree, he closed his eyes and released a long breath, the steam from his mouth drifting in the light wind. The tree reminded him of father; he would often come to pray and sharpen his sword at the roots amongst the springs. It was the one place where he could escape the chaos of everything, but one thing that stood out for Jon was how, if one of the children sought him out for something, he welcomed them warmly with open arms. Despite his father’s need to sometimes decompress, he never denied the affection and comforting words for his children.

The hot spring nearby simmered despite the freshly fallen snow, and he suddenly remembered a story their old Nan used to tell them about secret dragons that lived under Winterfell and kept the springs hot. The wonder made him smile. It made him think of Daenerys.

"No dragon queen, then?" Arya's voice cut through his thoughts as if it physically assaulted him.

His head whipped behind him, and he became quickly overwhelmed with emotion. He didn't say anything, nor did he let her have another word before they ran at each other. He scooped her up off her feet, holding her as tightly as if he would lose her as quickly as when he left for Castle Black. They stayed that way for several moments, both of them unable to confine their grief. Once he had her back on her feet in the crunch of the snow, he examined every bit of her just as he did with Bran, but his eyes fell to what he had been looking for: Needle.

"You still have it," he cooed through the cracking of his voice.

"Of course. I wouldn't be here without Needle," she replied affectionately, moving aside her cloak.

Jon's eyes found hers with some trepidation. "Have you used it?"

"More times than I can count." There was a confidence that crossed her face and she spoke unflinchingly, causing Jon to gawk at her a little longer than intended.

"I'd love to hear about it." They straightened themselves a bit and Jon took a step back, paused, and reached out to muss her hair. This time it was more difficult as she similarly tied her hair back like his. She laughed anyway, a sound Jon missed more than anything. Arya was the link to his happiest childhood days and he clung onto it as if he had nothing else.

"What happened down there? Is the North too much for a Southern girl?"

Jon shook his head, eyes dropping to his feet. "The only goal she has is to dethrone Cersei. She fears by bringing her army here, she risks losing the power she has now."

Arya looked away in thought. "Could you not have bargained with her? If she needs someone to join her cause to kill Cersei, I'm more than willing to meet her there myself."

This threw Jon for a loop, making a gesture with his head suggesting as much. "What? Why?"

With a nonchalant shrug, Arya shifted some snow around with her foot. "She had a hand in killing our father and Lady. Why  _not_?"

This garnered a small smirk from Jon as much as he wished it hadn't. She was a changed woman but ever the same. "Well, now I think I need to hear it all."

They began to walk back toward the castle together. Jon had missed the bitter cold. "Daenerys wanted me to pledge myself to her cause before she was willing to do so for me. I was afraid of what sort of danger I might be putting both herself and myself in if I forfeit the crown for a Targaryen queen from foreign lands. Still, she is short one dragon because of me, and it haunts me every single day."

Arya remained stoic in her facial expressions, which made it difficult for Jon to interpret her feelings. "I'm not angry with you, but I'm sure Sansa won't be entirely thrilled over it. Not that her feelings trump anyone else's. And anyway, it isn't as if we were promised an alliance. I can respect her decision."

"Sansa has hardly spoken a word to me since I returned. If you saw Daenerys’s dragons you would be on your knees begging her to fly them here. I nearly was, and I was a damn fool to think I could be that persuasive."

"Sounds like you really like her," Arya teased, her mouth twisting into a taunting smirk.

"What makes you think that?"

"The way you talk about her. You're not angry, but if I were in  _your_ position, as King in the North, I would be."

The assurance in her tone earned a look of both admiration and intrigue from Jon. They were soon in the courtyard of Winterfell; people dispersed here and there and dragonglass by the hoard was being issued to Gendry at the armory. He was stationed at his forge, making preparations to form as many dragonglass weapons he could muster. Arya suddenly became distracted at the sight of him, and excused herself from Jon, though promised they would meet again later. 

\---

After a long gathering discussing battle tactics, arranging and rearranging the pegs on the map board, lots of back and forth between each lord, lady and knight in the room, they concluded their plans. It was the best Jon felt they could do with what they had, but the sheer lack of numbers on their side still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Bran confirmed that the Night King would be seeking him out, so he would remain in the Godswood as a lure. As much as everyone protested, Bran insisted this would be the only way to distract the Night King away from the battle if he could be baited there. 

Theon pledged himself and the Ironborn to protect him, as well as a handful of northmen they could spare away from the front lines. They would dig two trenches a half mile apart that could buy them time should they need it. Dragonglass was being mounted on anything they felt the wights would touch, assuring their deaths. Barrels of oil would be assigned to those taking station at the parapets and poured onto the wights who would reach the castle walls, ensuring the flaming arrows would be effective again the bitter cold and winds. Trebuchets were being constructed and would launch flaming stone into the hoards of wights. Any man, woman and child unable to bear arms would seek refuge in the crypts. Archers, swordsmen...they did their best to utilize all they had.

Once everyone parted, Jon sat in a nearby wooden chair and squeezed his eyes shut, running his hands over his face. The silence was peaceful. They had about a week to put everything into motion from what Bran observed via raven. The Night King was keeping a steady pace from Last Hearth and was killing everyone in his path, which meant picking up more strength. Jon was still waiting on word from Tormund, Edd, Beric...any survivors from The Wall, but Bran was unsuccessful in finding them. With the wall crumbling, Jon could not imagine any survived such a fall.

Clumsy footsteps thumped across the wooden floor followed by a grunt and apology, and Jon looked up to see Sam wheeling Bran in. Sam was an unexpected sight to which Jon grinned widely, leaving his seat to pull him into a bear hug.

"You've been here all this time?" Jon gasped, stepping back. How relieving it was to have another familiar face safe and at home.

Sam nodded almost nervously, as if he were finding a way to explain himself. "W-well, yes. I didn't think I would much benefit giving any war counsell, so I thought I'd wait outside..."

"We have something gravely important to tell you. Let's go the crypt, for privacy." Bran's monotonous tone interrupted any contented feelings in the room. Jon's face fell a bit and Sam looked at him with remorseful eyes. It made Jon's stomach flip, and he couldn't walk fast enough to the crypt. Once outside the entrance, they stopped. "I will need help."

Jon carried Bran down the steps to the crypts step by step, mentally cursing at how heavy he was in his heap of furs. Sam followed, and Bran directed them to the statue of Lyanna Stark, father's dear sister. The torches danced violently, casting eerie shadows over the stone statues of the dead Starks and their direwolves. Bran asked Jon to place him on a small stone step just beside Lyanna's statue, to which he obeyed. Ned Stark's chiseled face appeared to be watching them to their left, an ominous effect of the flames.

"Alright then. What is it?" Jon wished to get to it; there was a chill that caused goosebumps to prickle his skin.

"I'm sure father told you the tale of Aunt Lyanna." It was more of a statement than a suggestion, and Bran watched Jon's face intently but barely changed the tone of his voice.

Jon nodded. "Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped her. She was to be wed to Robert Baratheon, and Rhaegar was married to Ellia Martell. Rhaegar raped Aunt Lyanna and Robert started a rebellion because of it."

Sam and Bran shared a look that Jon didn't miss.

"Aunt Lyanna was not kidnapped against her will, nor was she raped..." Bran stated soberly, igniting a puzzled look from Jon. "A tourney was held at Harrenhall. Both Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna were in attendance, along with their families. Rhaegar won the final tilt and rather than crowning his own wife as the new queen of love and beauty, he crowned Aunt Lyanna Stark."

Sam spoke next as if this had been recited once before. "Time passed, and Lyanna fled willingly with Rhaegar. They were wed in a secret ceremony."

The pieces were fed to Jon in hopes that he wouldn't become too overwhelmed or felt that this was a false tale. He said nothing, but his expression pressed them to continue.

Sam spoke gently, but with growing excitement to the point he began to stammer. "Gilly found a high septon's personal diary at the Citadel. The marriage was recorded in it."

"Together, they bore a son," Bran chimed in. "In the Tower of Joy; another secret. Rhaegar left her there, summoned by Robert Baratheon to answer his call for the disappearance of Aunt Lyanna, and Robert killed him." Jon looked up into Lyanna's stone face now. His blood tingled within him. "Aunt Lyanna birthed a son before father found her in the Tower. She begged him to keep him safe, else Robert would kill him, too. She then died in her bed. Father kept this promise and brought this boy home to Winterfell under the ruse that he was a bastard of his own making and his mother was unknown to anyone; a tavern wench, a maid...he would never say.  That boy was also given a false name for protection, as Robert would have had him murdered instantly. That name was Jon Snow."

Time stood still. Jon's heart pounded so hard in his chest he was certain it could be heard outside his leathers. His frantic, confused eyes darted between the faces of two people he trusted most in the world. He stumbled even though he wasn’t walking, his legs feeling like they would betray him at a moments notice.There was no advantage for them to lie to him, to utterly rattle his world.

They allowed him some time to absorb this before Sam continued on. "You're the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Your true name is Aegon Targaryen...Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm."

Jon felt as if he were observing this scene as a separate entity - one of the statues of the crypts overhearing some dire information but could not react. He hadn't realized how heavy he was breathing until Sam stepped toward him and placed his hand on his shoulder. He could feel the threat of tears stinging his eyes, but he refused to let them come. Instead, he closed his eyes in an attempt to digest this.

"My entire life has been a lie, all this time. I was hated by nearly everyone; spat on, bullied, disowned. Catelyn was never less than hateful toward me because she believed her husband, the most honorable man I ever knew, broke his vows to bed another woman. Bran, after you fell from that tower...she told me she wished it had been me in your place." It came out in gasps, his entire life preceding before him now. "I was never allowed to be seated near my family at dinners; always in the back, in the shadows and out of sight because I was a disgrace to our guests. Father always side-stepped any conversation relating to who my mother was...and promised he would tell me about her someday. Then he was murdered, and I was helpless under oath in the Night's Watch. I united the freefolk with the Night's Watch and was murdered by my own men for it."

It was all too much. He craned his neck and turned to look at Ned's solemn statue which hardly resembled him. It felt strange now to look upon his face and not know him as his father, but as much as Jon would give anything to have that conversation with Ned, he couldn't bring himself to hate him. He was as much a father to him as blood; he risked his life and his reputation to protect his nephew and raise him as his. It had been thrown at him the moment his sister died at his side, and he retained his sworn oath until his own death.

"Outside of this crypt, nobody else knows any of this information. To them, it is still the cause of Robert's Rebellion. It will be your decision if you wish to share this with anyone else." Bran said, pausing. "I have more news. You'll remember I said the dead breached the Wall. The Night King rides a dragon wight. That is how they came to pass."

Jon wasn't sure that he could take anymore; he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and collected Bran in his arms to exit the crypts with Sam at his heels. "I need to get a raven to Daenerys. She needs to know."

 ---

The following morning brought a new sense of dread in Jon. He had not slept for one minute, restless from the previous days events. He had spent much of the night reminiscing all the clues that lead up to his identity. So badly did he want to deny its existence, like he was stuck in a standstill dream that he could not wake from...but it all made sense. All of it. He thought of the early days of Winterfell when he and Robb would play, and Catelyn would hover up above and leer at him. He missed Robb and a part of him regrets not breaking his vows to the Night's Watch to be at his side when he needed him. During his childhood and until his departure, he had only had father, Arya and Robb, and two of them were dead. He was King in the North with countless men loyal to him and his cause, who would spill their blood and risk house extinction to aid him. As with many things in his life, it was a forced crown. He accepted it reluctantly and hoped that he did the job well, as best he could.

But now he was the rightful heir to the throne, another title, another crown, that he knew he would not take. It was not him; he was comfortable managing the North even in his hesitancy to do so, but this was his home. He had no appetite for governing seven kingdoms.

And then there was Daenerys. Her entire life and her building legacy was to take back what was stolen in the name of her - their - family. This thought tripped Jon's brain, and as he calculated it in his mind, it occurred to him then that Daenerys is his aunt. It was strange and also mortifying - strange, because she was nearly the same of age. Mortifying because he had repeatedly denied himself romantic feelings that he had developed for her over the course of the two months he spent at Dragonstone.

His thoughts bounced from this to that; what was his real father like? He had heard stories as a child that Rhaegar was a good man - he loved to sing and evidently was loved by many. So much so that they anticipated his father, King Aerys’s death so that Rhaegar would take his place as king. This gave Jon a strange sense of comfort knowing that, despite his annulment to his wife Elia, he was not known for anything too cynical. What was his mother like? It sounded to him that she died suffering. It was often suggested that Arya resembled her in both spirit and appearance. 

Did she have a happy life with Rhaegar, as short lived as it was? How did Ned Stark keep this probable history-altering secret under wraps, even right under his wife's nose? After he had spoken with Sam and Bran last night, he had sent a raven to Daenerys regarding Viserion via Bran's warging to ensure it got into her hands safely. The thought of her receiving this news and her breaking down pained him. And what of the matter of his lineage? Would it be right to tell her, or safest to keep it to himself? While he was questioning himself, he felt he already knew the answer. Of course he would need to tell her, but there was no time now and he wouldn't trust a revelation such as that to land in her hands through a raven, and hers alone. Varys was truly a spider and in her council, and it was known that he had broken seals to scrolls and masterfully pieced them back together. The Master of Whispers would cause turmoil beyond recognition if he were to spread the word.

No, Jon would need to tell her himself, but that was only if he survived the long night. At this point, the odds were grim. Otherwise, Daenerys truly would not have to worry about dealing with the King in the North anymore.

 ---

Afternoon came and Jaime Lannister with it. Jon was making headway to meet him alongside Sansa, Brienne, Arya, Bran, and Ghost,  all while having to cease some of the northmen from spitting on their guest from above. There were shouts of ‘kingslayer’. Jon silenced them with a raised hand. The balconies were quickly filling with people to get a better look. A hooded cloak shielded Jaime’s face from view on horseback, and removed it once he landed on his feet to take in his surroundings. His eyes shifted between each of them, lingering on Brienne, then became transfixed on Bran. Everyone else followed his gaze in confusion, but Jaime had stopped and approached them. There were nods and bows, but when Jon went to shake his hand, he realized it had been replaced with a gold-plated one. His eyes looked up to Jaime.

“A bit of an arduous tale,” Jaime said, resting his actual hand at his side. “As is my life, and I’m sure yours. The King in the North.” His tone was almost mocking. Arya stared wildly at him.

“Aye. Last we spoke you thought of me as weak and a fool.”

“And how does a sworn bastard of the Night’s Watch come to  _be_ the King in the North?”

“A bit of an arduous tale,” Jon mirrored. A slow smirk played on Jaime’s face. “Why did you ride to Winterfell? I received word while at Dragonstone that your sister broke her truce.”

A stableboy behind Jaime guided his horse to the stables. Jaime hesitated. “I made a promise that I intended to keep. I saw that thing in the dragon pit. That, and...Cersei is with child. I must do my part to keep them safe.” 

Jon regarded him in silence, briefly looking between his siblings, then back to Jaime. “It’s been a long time since a Lannister and a Stark fought together for a mutual enemy. How do I know I can trust you?”

A shift behind Jon brought Brienne up beside him. “Your Grace, if I may...Ser Jaime is not what he once was. He is a good man and he has long redeemed himself from any past crimes he has committed. You have my word, as a friend and former traveling companion of Ser Jaime’s, and as someone who would not see that any harm come to your family. You are mine to protect, as are the rest of your family.”

Jon smiled just slightly at her and nodded, turning his attention back to Jaime. “You may fight for the north. Should you choose to betray my trust, I’ll see to it that you are dealt with properly.”

Jaime’s lips curved slightly upward, serious now. “I would expect nothing less from a king.”

Brienne failed to hide her small smile when Jon gave his approval to one of the guards to escort Jaime to his chambers. All then began to disperse, but Sansa remained and found herself walking beside Jon in silence.

“What have I done wrong this time?” Jon asked with a faint tone of jest.

“We still haven’t really discussed your time in Dragonstone.”

“What is there to discuss? Nothing happened that isn’t already obvious.”

Sansa delayed, then stopped walking. Jon stopped with her. “Rumor came to my attention that the reason you postponed your return was for...other reasons. That you were quite taken by this dragon queen.”

Jon stared at her incredulously, becoming increasingly flustered. “Did you expect me to persuade her within a fortnight? If that were the case, we could have saved a lot of time and effort and sent her a lengthy plea via raven. How did you come by such hearsay, anyhow?”

The sourness in his stomach was stirring as he read her face. She appeared to become a little uncomfortable herself. She looked away to scan their surroundings, ever-busy these days, before finding him again. “When you announced you would go to accept the invitation to Dragonstone, despite my pleas to not abandon your people, Littlefinger would often caution me that you both were ‘young and unmarried’. Not to mention it was a dangerous proposition to throw yourself at the feet of a woman who is all but known to be treading in her father’s footsteps. I was concerned; I didn’t know what to make of it. I was both worried for your safety as well as Daenerys manipulating you to change course and take her side and further abandon the north.”

They continued to walk somewhere in the midst of Sansa’s confession, but Jon felt numb and hadn’t noticed. His head was spinning. He frowned deeply, unsure of what to make of it for the longest time. “Sansa...you sent our own people to  _spy_ on me. That’s espionage and in most instances justification for treason. Have you forgotten I am a king? Have you no faith in me at all? Since when did you ever take anything Littlefinger said to heart?”

Dumbstruck and hurt, he had a million questions and was nearing wanting to shout at her, but didn’t wish to cause a scene. They hadn’t had much time to speak just the two of them, but during their war council he had been informed of Littlefinger’s death and that Arya had been the one to execute him. He had still been trying to get a firm grip on who his little sister had become - always his little sister regardless of his true name.

It seemed Sansa would crumble, until she regained her composure. “I’m not denying that what I did was wrong, but I  _do_ feel it was just at least in regards to your safety. It’s why I convinced you to bring more men with you than you were willing. Ser Davos is hardly a good candidate for defense, as kind and loyal as he is to you. The subject of Littlefinger is that I learned from my mistakes through trusting him for as long as I did. It took me much longer than it should have. He’s dead now.”

Huffing in disbelief, they found themselves in a private corner. It was difficult to look at her; this had been the second time in recent memory that she had conspired with Littlefinger unbeknownst to him. Sometimes he would remember his war with Ramsay Bolton, bitterly termed as the “Battle of the Bastards” by most, and how they rallied the Vale as reinforcements when all hope was lost. Sansa explained that she had been ashamed to ask such a favor from Littlefinger, given that he was a main source for her misery, and that she should have told Jon sooner. He had forgiven her then; they were desperate and would have succumbed to the likes of Ramsay without the Vale. Regardless, they suffered a great loss and were still reeling from it now with the Army of the Dead approaching.

Finally, he turned his attention back to her. “I appreciate your concern for my safety, I really do. But you were wrong for doing it with an ulterior motive. You’re my sister-” he grimaced, “-and I won’t punish you. But promise me this: all of this conspiring behind my back...it can never happen again. It will not. If you  _truly_ trust in me and my decisions, as your brother and as your king, you’ll not refuse.”

The warning in his voice as he studied her reaction critically seemed to be enough for her to understand without him having to delve into the possibilities of her consequences. She was his family - he would not be cruel; he was not that man, and he trusted her enough to believe she did mean well. However, his trust in her as Lady of Winterfell was fraying. In the back of his mind, it felt unworldly that he was addressing Sansa as he was when years ago, when he was only a bastard boy, she gladly would have shoved him or mocked him or simply ignored his existence. Now she was being cautioned against her private scheming.

They had stood together in silence for a few more seconds, Sansa visibly upset, before she apologized and eventually swore she would always consult him should she have concerns or suggestions, regardless of how she thought he may perceive them. With that, they parted ways. Amidst his distress, he sought out his bed chambers for privacy and time to decompress. He was exhausted: from giving ultimatums, always feeling like he needed to keep a wary eye over his shoulder at all times, the pressing matter of his lineage....Frankly, was beginning to ponder the idea of having stayed in Dragonstone for an eternity. 


	4. Part IV - The Eve of Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a conversation with Arya. A message is sent to Dragonstone.

"The Night King has crossed the Dreadfort. He will be here in two nights time during the hour of the wolf. He has taken many more casualties."

All had gathered in the war council room to finalize everything and Bran had just returned from the Godswood. With what little time they had, Jon was pleased with their progress. It had been five days since he had returned from Dragonstone and he had barely gotten so much as a few hours of rest. He had not gotten any word from Dany since informing her about Viserion.

Ghost nuzzled Jon's hand, earning him a good scratch under his ear. He wouldn't leave Jon's company even for a second, to the point where Jon had to take him out into the woods to hunt since he returned. They concluded their meeting, but Arya and Bran remained. He looked up at them after a moment.

"Have you been alright? You've been shut out the past few days," Arya questioned, leaning slightly against a column, studying his face as if taking mental notes. After all he had learned from her, about the Faceless Men, how she mastered her lessons from Syrio Forel, and taking on the enormous feat of seeking revenge for all of her family's misfortunes...he felt she could probably read his mind now. Bran remained silent, but tuned in.

Jon made a gesture suggesting both ‘yes’ and ‘no’. "Just preparing for the inevitable, I suppose." There was only a flick of a smile that was more like a grimace. He was recalling the argument he and Sansa had erupted into yesterday:

Sansa, who had been aiding in the forthcoming war, had been giving Jon his space as he had been upset over her revelation the other day. Only once had she confronted him, asking him if Daenerys realized her mission would be forfeit should the Night King take Winterfell. There had been more disdain in her voice than Jon cared for. He loved his sister - or rather his cousin - but at times he could only bother with her in spurts when she pressed him. He was proud of the woman she became; strong-willed and comfortable in her own skin despite all she survived and witnessed, but when she made attempts to shame him for difficult decisions, it angered him.

And again, it had quickly developed into more of an argument. His response to her had been that there was nothing more they could do to convince Dany, unless Sansa would rather forfeit the North to a queen she didn't know nor believe in. Her eyes had widened at his claim, pushing him for where he got such an idea and that she never expressed any hostility at Dany bringing her army North. At that point he had become increasingly frustrated and their volumes had risen considerably.

"You'll remember that when I announced I would accept Tyrion's invitation to Dragonstone, you berated me in front of all the lords present, that I was abandoning my people and my home, and a Targaryen could never be trusted. Aye, it was a risk, but I came back in one piece. She could have burned me alive the moment I stepped onto her lands, but Tyrion's invitation was honest. I did my best, but to no avail. Tyrion believed she could be convinced by the right person, a King to a Queen, and I failed."

There had been a heavy silence and she wasn't able to look at him then. "I failed my people, and for that I am sorry," he had told her.

It had seemed as if Sansa was going to let it go, but alas, she still had more to say. "May I ask one thing, then? Why are you not angry with her? You would protect the North with your life, risk it even to bring houses together with a stranger, yet you still defend her. Why?"

It was a loaded question to which Jon felt tongue-tied. It also nearly echoed his and Arya’s conversation just days ago, but was much more strained. If ever there was one flaw about himself he despised most, it was his inability to lie. And when he considered lying, his face often failed him, and his answer was clear without any words. His eyes stared at the floor, but they softened when they found Sansa's face.

"Because I love her, and I understand that what I was asking of her was a near impossible feat." It had taken him by his own surprise to admit it out loud; he wasn't even sure of it until he heard it himself. Not long after this, Sansa stated that arguing was doing them more harm than good, and when he was ready for a civil conversation, he could come to her.

After being resurrected by Lady Melisandre, Jon found he had less patience for such antics. He was still searching for whatever purpose Melisandre claimed he was given a second chance for, and since returning, his life had been thrown for a loop.

In present time, Arya stood closer to her distressed brother. "Are you sure that's all? You've fought these dead men many times before...they can't possibly be the sole purpose for your worries. Is it Sansa? I could have a word with her."

Jon was disturbed that she could read him like an open book. Subconsciously, Jon looked to Bran, who was able to read his non-verbal question.

"It's your choice," Bran offered quietly.

Arya's brow knitted closely together. "Choice? What is he talking about? Choice to do what?"

It was difficult for Jon to speak with the knot in his throat. He felt it might close and he would have a panic attack. Would this be the right decision, here and now? To drop all of this so soon before the Night King would arrive? Would she disown him, just as he had been by nearly everyone as a falsely raised bastard?

"I need to tell you something, but it stays between the three of us in this room. If it doesn't...well, I don't have a clear mind right now, but I know it'll do more harm than good." There was a small, anticipating nod from Arya, face unmoving. He was grateful she didn't question his exclusion of Sansa, assuming that she had an idea that he was losing trust in her. He sucked in a deep breath and recited almost verbatim what Bran and Sam had fed him, and at the end he felt the same rush of emotion flood him as it did the first time he heard it. Again, he had to fight the risk of tears leaking from his eyes, so he looked away while she digested everything.

The silence became uncomfortable, and he nearly begged for her to say something. Unexpectedly, Arya moved forward and embraced him in her arms. She buried her face in his furs, allowing herself to cry. Jon reciprocated and wrapped his arms around her, releasing a long-held breath, and this time he could no longer hold back the wetness that fell from his eyes. Though Bran was restrained to his chair, the smallest of gentle smiles remained on his face.

They stayed that way for a long time.

When they parted slightly, their eyes were all red and wet, which only elicited some chuckles from each of them.

"You are and always will be a Stark. But you can be both a Targaryen and a Stark; it makes no difference to us. You're our brother and we love you," Arya said affectionately. This brought a wide smile to Jon's eyes, nodding in response since he knew his voice would only give out at this point. "A dragon raised by wolves," she added quietly.

Her acceptance had evoked a large smile from him. "I'm not so sure Sansa would feel the same, but..."

"We will deal with her later. When you're ready. It would probably be best to wait for her to come around first." Her face then twisted into something inquisitive. "Does this mean you're able to ride a dragon?"

Jon took the opportunity to return to the more light-hearted mood. "Would you be jealous?"

"Of course."

"Then I have to say yes, even though I don't know the real answer." This made Arya grin and she threw a playful punch at Jon's shoulder.

"You say you love her. Targaryens always kept their bloodline pure by wedding and breeding within their family, even sisters and brothers," Arya said matter-of-factly with her arms resting behind her back, spewing this fact out into the open. Jon couldn't help but smirk just slightly - of course she would have picked up on that detail. It had been weighing on his mind this whole time as well, and rather incessantly. "Septa Mordane conveniently omitted these kinds of details from our lessons. But I read about it. I'd always admired Visenya Targaryen and wish I could have been around when she was. I quite admire her."

"I'm aware...but it won't matter if I'm dead."

"If we win this war, you have to tell her, Jon. It's only right, even if you refuse your right to sit on the throne," Arya offered gently. "If you make it common knowledge, The North will undoubtedly rally behind you as King, whether you want it or not. There are numerous houses loyal to house Stark; you are still half Stark by blood."

"That's not the point," Jon added gruffly. "If it becomes common knowledge, I don't know that Daenerys will have the support she does now to take the throne. Her cause will be for nothing. I will not accept the crown."

"Does she not share any feelings for you as you do for her?"

Jon shrugged, but he didn't know how to differentiate between what he wanted to believe versus what he thought he believed. "It's not like we made a discussion out of it...if anything we fought more than we bonded."

Memory rushed back into Jon's mind like a wave. He and Daenerys had shared many times alone amidst friendly banter and conversation. They shared dinners together when Jon sometimes believed the rest of her council may have left them alone on purpose. And even in the heat of their arguments, he still held a deeply rooted affection for her. If anything, it roused him a little more than he would be willing to admit. The wonder that sat upon Dany’s face when he had shown her the etches and paintings in the caves had proved to him, in that very moment, that she was more than just another noble house seeking power for power's sake. She was experienced and survived far more than most should have to endure in a lifetime, and he hadn’t learned her full history even then. She had feelings, emotions, opinions beyond that of a queen; most importantly, she had a good heart and would come to bring the world to a tranquility like it had never seen before.

Arya was smirking when he returned to present time. "It sounds more like passionate quarrels, to me. Would you have come back so soon had Bran not sent that letter to you?"

Jon felt caught red handed, and he hated the feeling of heat rising to his cheeks. He avoided eye contact by staring at his suddenly-interesting boots. "Probably not," he muttered defiantly. His response granted her a grin and a slight laugh, gently elbowing him the side.

"We're going to win this war, you know." The confidence and sudden change in topic caught him off guard. His face hardened and he stared at her a moment.

"Well, I hope I feel half as confident as you when the Night King arrives." A small smile, and Arya brought him in for a hug befor a rustling noise and the sound of a broken jar hitting the floor startled them from conversation. Arya found the culprit first: a small girl with ratted hair, who fled the room as fast as her legs could carry her with a face of horror plastered on her face.

Jon went cold; he had seen the likes of children like her before. Many of Varys's 'little birds' were children; their facade of innocence could easily be misinterpreted for curiosity.

"Let me take care of her-" Arya began to sprint off, but Jon caught her by the arm. Her head whipped back to look at him in confusion. Then she came to realize what he was thinking. "I'm not going to hurt her. Did you not see she had parchment in her hand? Word is going to travel to who knows where and your secret will not be safe anymore."

Jon released her with a nod of approval. She offered a small smile before leaping off after the girl. He turned to Bran. "I should've been more careful. I might regret it soon enough."

\---

When evening of the following day arrived was when Jon next saw Arya. Oddly, she was walking almost distracted through the courtyard. Jon frowned and caught up with her.

"Are you alright?" He gently pulled her shoulder to face him.

"I found the girl, but she got to the rookery first. Don't worry, I did no harm, but I was able to get some information out of her. The letter is going straight to Dragonstone, to the Spider."

It was as Jon feared, but he would be a fool if he didn't feel even slightly relieved that he was spared at least a small amount of time to live in his secret before the world would eventually find out. His eyes lightened and he gently shook Arya by her shoulder. "It's not your fault; I was stupid for telling you where I did. I should've been more careful."

When she looked at him, she seemed further puzzled. "Oh, I wasn't so upset about that as...I mean, I am. I just..."

Something was off with her but Jon couldn't place a finger on it. "What is it? You can tell me, you know."

Arya contemplated this for a moment. Jon thought she looked almost shy, an unusual sight to see. "I...you know Gendry. And you know that we traveled together for some time." She made both of them walk into an unknown direction, away from listening ears.

"We, well...I had him meet me...it's not really something I should be sharing with my brother." Her cheeks were noticeable red even in the blue-hued light.

Jon wanted to take advantage of her vulnerability, but also didn't wish to humiliate her. He did allow himself a small snort of laughter, and Arya, without looking, whacked him hard on the arm.

"I understand...you don't have to say it. But why do you look like you regret it?"

She thought about it for a few seconds. "I don't, really. I guess...I feel a bit sad. I feel like I've not had much human connection for so long, and then this happened...and it might be taken from me in a few hours time."

Jon's face was serious now; compassionate. "We don't know that. We think we do...but we don't. We have a real chance. Maybe not the best, but a real one." He suddenly turned her toward him and leaned down a little so he was more eye-level with her. "I love you, little sister. I wish you would stay with Sansa in the crypt, but I know that's not you. That's not who we are, is it."

Arya quickly closed the space between them, her arms wound around his shoulders in a tight embrace. "No, it's not. I'll see you later."

Pulling away, he left a kiss to her forehead before she went on her way. He began making his final rounds to ensure they were on track. It all seemed to be in place, and now all they had to do was wait. People bustled from here to there, long-time friends and once-nemeses were conjoining in various rooms inside Winterfell for their possible final farewells and toasts.

Jon felt numb as he walked through the courtyard and passageways; at one point he hardly noticed anyone else. He had given up all hope of Tormund, Beric and Edd, assuming they had succumbed to the Wall. But there was no time to mourn now.

Suddenly, from above at the top of the parapet, he could hear Ser Davos commanding the men to their posts. This was their signal that the dead were arriving. As Jon was passing through the courtyard toward the stairs, he watched as Theon and the Ironborn wheeled Bran toward the Godswood. He stopped in front of them.

"I need to get to the Godswood. I briefly lost contact with the Night King; I could not find him earlier." Bran's revelation sent Jon's heart soaring in panic. With a nod, he stepped aside and patted Theon on the shoulder as they went on.

Scrambling northerners were running to their posts, nearly knocking Jon down the stairs in the meantime. Once he made it up to the parapet, he approached Ser Davos, who was peering out quietly into the black landscape ahead of them. Multiple rows of armed men were aligned in patches from the portcullis and just beyond the second trench. They also had clusters hidden at the flanks of Winterfell in their hope they could use a pincer tactic. Many of their friends were scattered about; their finest swordsmen defending the more impregnable parts of the castle. The vast majority of their army would remain behind Winterfell walls to prepare for a breah. Jaime, Podrick and Ser Brienne were shoulder-to-shoulder near the frontlines. The Hound was standing a few bodies to Jon's left, looking as if he had no care in the world, but yet determined to lay his sword into the threat closing in. At his hip was Heartsbane; Sam's family sword, which was useless in his hands and wished it to go to a well-suited swordsman. Sam, who insisted on fighting, but was quickly turned down by nearly everyone in their war council. Jon urged him to stay with Gilly and Little Sam in the crypt, and he obeyed, but not as reluctantly as he wanted it to seem.

They had decided not to cluster those with valyrian steel together; rather spread them out and make their odds favorable for killing the White Walkers, and most importantly, the Night King himself. Jon shuddered at the reminder of Bran losing sight of the Night King - a temporary flaw, Jon hoped.

Ser Davos turned just slightly toward Jon, his eyes never leaving the darkness looming ahead. "I wish you luck, Lord Snow. And should I suffer at the hands of one of these dead fuckers, it was a pleasure serving you."

His dry comment elicited a sideways grin from Jon, a small relief to cut the tense atmosphere. "And you, Ser Davos. It was fun while it lasted."

Arya's sudden appearance at Jon's other arm nearly made him jump out of his skin. "Gods, you really need to learn to make a louder entrance."

Her lips pursed in a suppressed smile. The spear-sword hybrid Gendry had made for her was slung diagonally across her back, her bow in hand. Needle rested loyally at her hip, as well as her Catspaw dagger. Only briefly did he wonder if she could muster all of it, but she was no longer a child.

A horn blew behind them, and it tingled Jon's skin from head to toe. The dead were closing in. From a distance, Jon could hear the shrill, icy crackling sounds spewing from innumerous dead men and women. His breath caught in his throat; from here, it only looked like the darkness was making the horrid sound.

Jon looked to Arya, and she to him, as they drew their weapons.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, sincerely, to everyone who has read my story this far! I am thoroughly LOVING writing, and always look forward to your feedback each chapter. This fandom is one of the most passionate I've ever been involved in, and I truly hope I'm creating an entertaining interpretation. <3 This is one of my shorter chapters, so I'll be posting the next one very soon!


	5. Part V - Battle for the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for the dawn begins.

The piercing shriek of the swarm of wights was deafening as they closed in on snow-blanketed, Winterfell grounds.

" _Nock!_ " Ser Davos commanded, archers moving unanimously. Jon's breath became shallow. Arya had moved to a different point of the castle for a better vantage point.

They could now see the faint whiteness of scrambling dead bodies ahead in the darkness. It looked as if the shadows themselves were dancing in an unnatural form. It was a sight Jon felt he would never quite grow used to.

" _Draw!"_

Archers drew back their arms as the muddled cries of the dead creatures closed in on them.

 " _LOOSE!_ "

Flaming arrows and boulders from the trebuchets soared above their heads, rolling and setting afire multiple groups of wights and evoking ear-piercing layers of shrieks as they were crushed, burned and crumbled. The fire set a glowing light to the scene in front of them: they were far outnumbered. Jon could barely see beyond the hoard running at the castle, even from a high vantage point. Hardhome suddenly felt like a simple task. The dragonglass-ridden caltrops that had been scattered all throughout the grounds were shattering wights into pieces far beyond what they could see, but were quickly replaced by more dead men in a flash. They kept most of their arms within castle walls, but had clusters of men flanking the outer castle walls as well as encircling the castle to prevent a surrounding siege.

The distant trench came alight in a magnificent display, stopping the wall of dead men in their tracks as groups of them stumbled and melted into the flames.

Jon gasped quietly, observing their work, arrows piercing the black sky and boulders clamoring incessantly into the bodies ahead. As they stood watching, the dead mimicked them, beginning a standoff. Slowly, one-by-one, a wight would walk forward willingly into the flames. This induced confused looks amongst one another, but it quickly became clear that they were extinguishing the flames and creating a bridge of bodies.

In a desperate effort to keep them at bay, arrows were fired into the second trench, but a gust of snowy wind picked up rapidly and were putting out the flames before they could ignite the wood. Panic ensued and Davos began ordering their attack; the walls were going to be breached, and they were too outnumbered to defend them now. Archers angled their arrows along the walls that were becoming riddled with dead men; some succumbed to the fire, and others to the dragonglass secured along the stone, which provided enough time for the northerners to gather at the northern gate.

Jon descended the stairs quickly, the steam of his breath escaping him in short pants, with much of their defenses falling behind him. An order for the gates to open was shouted into the cold air. As the portcullis lowered, there had been no time to even take a breath in preparation as the entry was quickly consumed by wights. Jon hollered at the top of his lungs, followed by Jaime, Brienne and everyone at his back as they rushed forward to meet their foes.

The initial encounter came easy to him as they had enough defenders in their line. Jon swung, parried, twisted, ducked and decapitated a number of the wights, grunting when he was thrust to the ground. Brienne stood above him, swinging her sword as if it were feather-light, allowing Jon time to get back on his feet. He thrust Longclaw into the mostly-hollow belly of one, swiped in a wide circle to claim multiple legs at others. Brienne and Jaime were back-to-back, Jaime handicapped with only one usable arm. Jon rushed around to near the front of Jaime, never resting his kills, lunging Longclaw into every endless dead body that reached for him.

Bodies were pressed against one another, barely giving enough room to swing a weapon, and often Jon’s shoulder would get clipped and throw him off balance.

They were swarmed and they were quickly losing lives at a horrid rate. When Jon got even a half second to assess the situation, he saw almost an even number of armor than wight bodies. Sweat layered his entire body and poured down his forehead; pieces of his curled hair were beginning to fall into his face with every violent thrust. Podrick moved in beside Jon, who tried to make even a small amount of progress through the cluster, but whenever he created a gap, it was effortlessly filled again, drawn like moth to flame.

At one point he turned again to see where everyone was, only to be knocked in the shoulder and fallen to the ground face-first. The fall claimed all the wind from him and a ragged tear to his lip as his blood stained the mud below him. He began being trampled upon; a frightful reminder of his battle with Ramsay Bolton. His face was smashed into the mud, feeling he would nearly suffocate until the pressure along his back was relieved. Before he considered looking for his savior, he held Longclaw before him and lifted himself violently to uppercut three wights in his path with a shout.

Arya came in at his side, wielding her spear as smoothly as if she had practiced this before. She was mirroring him; her face spotted with mud and blood, her left ear bleeding so thickly it almost looked like a hole in her head. He gave her a quick nod of appreciation as they became hitched at their backs together, following each others movements. Jon would swing around over Arya's head, and Arya around the front of Jon's legs, creating a pile of bodies in circular form around them. They synched wonderfully, but soon became separated in the masses.

The noise was almost overbearing between shrieks and screams of the dead, blended with the shouts and hollers of his own people. He often wasn't sure if it was one of his own people dying, or a dead man’s cry.

 Jon whispered a curse to himself.

"Fall back!"

The first clutches of their men began to descend back to the castle walls, and at the sides where they had hidden away more of their men, they had begun to close in, taking out as many wights as were possible. Wights spilled through the unlit trench, flailing themselves, clawing at the living's faces. From what Jon could observe where he stood, the men who had only just come in with the pincer attack were all or mostly dead. The rush had quickly disintegrated. Jon's chest felt tight and it was becoming hard to breathe in the thick of it. The air was hot and musty and reeked of death. He continued to swing Longclaw this way and that, trying his best to focus on every rotted face that came for him.

Time went on and the Northern army was thinning out considerably. There was still no sign of the Night King, but everyone was beginning to get weary and they needed to reset, but no longer did they have the refuge of the inner castle walls. They all fought their way, never ceasing, until they reached the portcullis again, changing course to begin defending within the castle grounds now. The whipping snow blinded them and caused fits of coughing and choking from the bitterness of the frost. Jon shielded his eyes with one hand to get a look toward the sky, but found nothing but wind and snow in his eyes. That meant that the Night King was either nearby, or his commanders were, causing the storm of snow.

Jon cut through the crowd behind him and ran past the gates. He took a moment to himself behind a wall, and time seemed to stop. His gasps were shallow and he couldn't seem to catch up with himself. The smell of decay and rot and mud lingered in his nose. The blood-curdling scream of someone just beyond the gate brought him back to reality. Lyanna Mormont put her hand on Jon's shoulder to turn him toward her. The contact caused him to raise his sword defensively until he realized who it was.

"They have giants and something else terrible, Your Grace!" She yelled over the volume of war.

Jon could only nod and rush up the stairs. When he looked overhead, past the endless piles of bodies were at least three giants. He squinted his eyes only to confirm what he was unsure of: there were at least a dozen ice spiders, and four of which were being ridden by one white walker commander each. The sight made Jon ill; this was an unforeseen problem and one they were _not_ prepared for.

Ser Davos ordered another round of flaming arrows, but they only simmered out against the ice spiders glacial bodies. Their movements made Jon sick; they were unbelievably fast and they didn't know what would kill them, but Jon would bet on valyrian steel.

"Aim for the giants! They can breach the walls!" Jon yelled at Ser Davos as he moved to find anyone else with a valyrian steel sword. His path led him outside again, chopping down wights one by one, to Ser Brienne holding a limp Pod in her arms. Brienne was sobbing over his body as Jaime and a group of others fought around her.

Jon raced to her and grabbed her elbow. "You have to move!" He gestured to the inner walls of the castle, reaching over Jaime's shoulder to hack at a weight's chest. Brienne complied, rushing inside to safety while holding Pod's lifeless body. Jaime followed behind her to protect her.

Jaime was one of the few others with valyrian steel, but it was too late to go back for him now. Jon spun in a tight half circle and cut through four wights in their middles and they collapsed to his feet. His voice was going hoarse from shouting. Finally, he found Arya again, but she had a short-range dagger that would be near impossible to maneuver against the spiders. They were enormous; as big as hounds, as Old Nan used to tell them. Perhaps they should have listened to her after all.

Jon caught up to Arya, gesturing toward the incoming spiders. Her lips were curled in an attempt to breathe, and she looked to Jon. "How do we kill those?" She shouted.

"I'm not sure we can!" He ducked to the ground as Arya swung behind where his head had once been to slice a wight clean across his face. They fell back into the gates again and Ser Davos ordered everyone to do the same, and as they were preparing to regroup, their attentions were drawn toward a blood-curdling wail calling down to them from somewhere up above. For a time everything seemed to fall into an eerie silence; everyone who was able had their heads turned up toward the sky.

The Night King, saddled upon an undead Viserion. They quickly escalated to the parapet. It was a horrible sight to look onto; there were far more of their northern men dead than wights. Ice spiders closing in with their White Walker mounts, flanked by giants who, with one swoop of their arm, would wipe out fifty men. A thick beam of blue fire rained down upon the battle grounds, incinerating those in its path without mercy.

"Take cover!" Jon shouted; the Night King was only gaining speed as he descended upon the castle. Jon made sure to never lose sight of Arya as hoards of people flooded to flee down the stairs, but the last thing Jon remembered for some time was Viserion's shriek, the sound of stone collapsing, and then he was pummeled in the head until everything went black.

\---

When Jon opened his eyes, everything was muted chaos. He hadn't an idea how long he was unconscious for, but he had been moved to an interior room within Winterfell. Slouched against the wall, he groaned and put a hand to his hair where warm blood matted it. The wound pounded rhythmically. When he looked around, he recognized the library, but wondered who had the will to move him there.

Quickly, too quickly as it took a moment for his body to catch up, he got to his feet with unsteady balance. Reaching for his hilt, he realized Longclaw wasn’t there. Instead, he unsheathed the dragonglass dagger from his other side. Jon stumbled his way through the library, trying to focus in on the sounds outside and what state he would find the castle in. Once he pushed open the door, he still had a way to go before he would reach the north gate, but already wights were pouring this far into the grounds.

There was another rumble before more stones landed a disconcerting close proximity from Jon's feet, and he stumbled backwards. Once it was deemed safe to pass, he squeezed past the rubble and began hacking his way again to the front. He wasn't horrible with a dagger, but much preferred the feel and weight and familiarity of Longclaw, which he was now on the hunt to find.

Eventually he got to where he needed to be, and he took in what came before his eyes with disbelief. There was so much rubble he was sure half the castle was gone. Someone shouted his name to duck and without thinking, he threw himself to the ground as a giant's fist swooped so close over him it caused his hair to ruffle.

Lyanna Mormont miscalculated and when the giant's arm swung back around, he struck in the most gruesome manner. Her body hit the wall too easily, and Jon watched horror-struck. He clambered to his feet and ducked from another swing, which he continued to do as he was unable to scale the pile of stone that barricaded his exit just yet. Jon launched himself over the giant's club-like foot, and fervently kicked himself off the ground to avoid being crushed to death.

Just as Jon was going to make another round-about, a tattered, bloodied and mangled Lyanna Mormont raced toward the giant with all that she had, wielding a dragonglass axe. The giant picked her up as if she were nothing but a doll, crushing her in his hands. She was half the size of one of his fingers. But as he drew her close to his rotted teeth, she screamed with all of her might and drove the axe into his blue eyeball, causing him to shrivel and collapse as she fell with him to her death.

Taking advantage of a horrible affair, Jon scaled the stones and hopped over and was finally making progress. His arm swung relentlessly at his attackers and it felt like it would never end. One, three, five in a row, spilling to the ground. Jon was taking more hits to himself without Longclaw, and he grew enraged, giving him a new sense of energy each time.

Finally, he happened upon where he had fallen, but no Longclaw to be found. Amidst the chaos, a section of stairs still remained, and he gasped his way up them but there was a division where it had been broken. WIth a great leap, Jon launched himself up, nearly sliding down to a deep fall, but grasped a jagged edge and pulled himself up with a grunt.

As he stood at the remaining parapet, he realized that much of the keep and walls above and behind him were missing. The wights were relentless, but it seemed as if the Night King was nowhere to be found again. He allowed himself a few breaths to try and calm his nerves a bit; everyone had abandoned this end of the castle except for a few groups of northerners that were left below him. Many had fallen back to surround the castle, but the wights poured in.

It was a hopeless situation; they would lose, and he soon would die. The scene in front of him, exhausted men trying their best to off the dead but being overrun, seemed to slow as he came to the realization that it was a lost cause. They would lose this war, and the Night King would grow his rapidly flourishing army and go south the King's Landing. To Daenerys.

Jon closed his eyes, sweat pouring down his bloodied face, the swarm of blustering snow whipping his loosened hair about. There was a scream and the sound of a body hitting the battlements just above him to his side. Jon flinched and searched higher only to find an ice spider scaling the castle walls, a white walker mounting it.

Frantic, Jon grasped his dagger tighter, shifting from foot-to-foot in anticipation of a collision. One of the spiders thick, frozen legs swatted toward him but was thwarted by a column, giving Jon enough time to reach out and strike it with his dagger. With an unsettling scream, the spider shattered into a million shards and pooled around him. The white walker fell cleanly to his feet and immediately swiped his ice sword at Jon, who threw himself backward. He landed against a stone wall, cornered and trapped as the white walker approached. Within a split second's time, Jon analyzed his options - either hurl himself off the castle wall and hope for the best, or into the white walker. He chose the latter, howling as he lunged his body's force forward and was met with the elbow of the white walker into his jaw. His head was thrust to its side, nearly losing his footing onto the ground far below. The walker was behind his shoulder. In the midst of his momentary daze and pain, Jon found some remaining strength within him, his mouth fresh with blood, and swung his arm around his back, the dragonglass dagger piercing the walker's leg and ice shattering over Jon's hunched body.  

As he began running at a stagger along the wall, there was an all-too familiar sound of snarls and howls emerging from the grounds. Jon swung his dagger behind him, making contact with a mangled wight, before craning his head to find the source of the sound. Once he found higher ground, his eyes fell upon a large pack of wolves. The wolves darted and lunged, ripping the dead figures with an ease and tossing aside their remains. As his eyes adjusted through the snowy haze, he could just barely make out the discernable figure of Arya in the midst of the pack, enveloped in the safety of the wolves as she danced through the dead men with a skill that nearly distracted Jon for too long.

Averting his eyes, he continued to tread the broken castle walls; the jagged forms allowed him to climb the walls until he was as high as he could get without risking a collapse. He allowed himself a moment to inhale the cooler air, but when he made a circle to observe everything below, his breath hitched and his chest grew tight. Just as a group of wights approached him from behind, he held out his dagger and spun on his heel, throwing his arm with as much as he could as he came back around, and cut through the necks of every one. A giant somewhere below him began pounding his fists at the crumbling structure, and Jon quickly leapt to a lower level, landing heavy on his hands.

And then there was another bout of a dragon cry. Jon stood quickly to his feet, preparing for the inevitable: the Night King would rain blue flames down onto him, and Jon would be defenseless against him. The crossbows they had mounted to the tops of the walls for Viserion had been decimated, its archers long since deceased. He was battle-beaten, bruised and broken, his movements becoming too sloppy.

But when he adjusted his eyes, he narrowed them again as, in the distant sky, red fire spouted violently on the left and engulfed its victims below. Then another bout, to the right of the first one. 

Jon nearly collapsed to his knees but not before a sudden rush of men came rearing up near him, chased by endless wights, two giant spiders, and three giants whom were now bursting the castle walls at the sides. Jon hurled himself down off the wall onto a pile of wights below him, driving the point of the dagger into the head of one on his way down, fervently cutting at every one he could before he pushed through the crowd and outside the gate. Sprinting forward with a newfound energy, he slashed and tore and tackled. The dragon fire ceased briefly, until Jon lost sight of them in the cloud cover.

And then the flames were hurling down before him in an extraordinary display; the wights cried to no avail as they burned to their death, and Drogon and Rhaegal danced in loops, burning endless trails through the dead and the giants and spiders. Jon shoved himself through the men until he found a clearing, and he found Daenerys at Drogon's back, his face full of nothing less than admiration and wonderment and mostly relief, just as he had done at Eastwatch by the Sea when she came to his aid. He could just see her searching below as the light of the flames highlighted her features, and for a brief moment their eyes met. Jon's chest was heaving he was breathing so hard. As Dany created a large clearing, the remaining northmen who rallied up behind him allowed themselves to stare in disbelief at what was unfolding before them. The giants and nearby ice spiders shriveled and melted to the frozen ground. The remaining wolves moved in, growling and snapping toward the dragons and their fire.

Arya caught up to him just then, and Jon had never seen such a look of astonishment on her face. Her mouth was agape in awe, and without averting her eyes, she spoke.

"There's your queen," she said boldly and without malice. Jon couldn't hold back his smile, but it was short-lived as he turned to Arya and grabbed her shoulders.

"Where is Bran? Where is the Night King?" Before Arya could open her mouth to answer, there was a horrid scream followed by several more, but they were the voices of women and children. Jon and Arya shared a look before they ran back around, through the courtyard, only to find that the crypts had been breached. The wolf pack trailed behind them at their heels, and suddenly Ghost was at Jon’s side. Some women and children were grossly defiled before they could reach them, and Jon stopped in his tracks when he found Gilly cast aside in the snow, eyes wide open but still as death, her body disfigured gruesomely. 

"No...Sam," he whispered in desperation to himself while Arya pulled out her bow and began to shoot from a distance at the wights bursting through the broken interior walls. The wolves closed in and soon a massive gray wolf with a partial black-masked face stood alongside Arya. Nymeria. 

Arya found Nymeria’s golden eyes and only have a very short pause to admire her. “Stay with me, girl!”

Some of the dead sprung from the ground where the Night King had created a crater with Viserion, allowing anyone to filter in and out. Nymeria heaved herself in front of Arya and tore easily at their bodies, Arya shooting them with dragonglass arrows to ensure their deaths.

Jon set about looking for survivors, but their numbers were dwindling and they were overrun. As he was going to make his way through to the crypt, the sound of horses clamoring through the snow caused him to spin on his heel - Dothraki riders flooded and screamed through the passageways and cut through the wights as if they were swinging at air. Jon and Arya watched, stunned briefly before the sight of a quivering Sansa was pulling herself out of the ground. She screamed as something caught her in her escape. Jon lurched forward onto his stomach and holding Sansa in one arm, reached down below at the muddled wight's face and slammed his dagger into it until its grip was loosened.

Sansa was pulled out of the cavernous hole and straight into Jon's arms; she was hurt and whimpering. Jon looked around him and the surrounding corpses; Arya ceased fire as the Dothraki had cleared the area to whip around the castle. When a spare Dothraki rider rode by and pulled back his horse’s reigns, he and Jon made eye contact, and the Dothraki man reached his arm down as Jon lifted her up onto horseback. She began to protest, but Jon gave her a nod of encouragement. She was so confused that she had no idea Daenerys had arrived, who these strange men were, or much of what was happening at all. 

"We need to pull back now; you go to the Godswood, take Nymeria. I'll make my way around to find everyone else," Jon commanded and Arya obeyed without question, wolves steady behind her.

Before Jon began making headway, he scurried around the area until he found an abandoned torch, barely lit, and found Gilly’s body once more. He lowered the small flame to her body, stepping back as it quickly engulfed her. Most of their dead wouldn’t be burned tonight, but Jon refused to accept the idea of Sam ever having to meet Gilly again as a wight corpse.

\---

Jon was flanked with a group of Dothraki to help assist in bringing survivors out of the castle as it began to collapse further from lack of infrastructure. He had found Sam hiding in the armory, comforting a crying Little Sam. With no time to offer many words, Jon ushered them out. Ser Davos had found refuge in the broken tower, tending to a deep stab to his leg. Ser Jaime was off in the forest near the Godswood with Brienne; Jon looked closer, curious as to why it looked like Jaime had been limping. The snow was playing tricks on his mind, but when Jaime grew closer, he realized he was dragging Brienne's armored and still body hastily through the forest. With little time to spare, Jon rushed forward and signaled for a Dothraki rider, managing to get Jaime onto one horse. Brienne was loaded onto a second, as her armor would have weighed too heavily on Jaime's mount. They were then sent on their way, and Jon swore that Jaime began to cry.

In between his search for survivors, he grew tired from the endless onslaught. In his mind he knew the Night King had fled. He hadn’t struck in a long time, and there wasn’t any commotion from the Godswood insinuating he had landed there. Viserion was nowhere to be seen nor heard.

Various northern men and surviving women and children were helped onto horseback, and though they were frightened half to death by their riders, they dared not stay. Ghost traveled alongside the herd on foot. Arya found Jon again with Theon and the Ironborn with Theon carrying Bran for a quicker escape. They were disheveled, which told Jon that the wights or walkers had found their way into the Godswood at some point, likely ensuring Brienne's death.  Gendry emerged lastly and they all traveled together to the north gate. Once everyone but Jon and Arya had been mounted onto a horse, Jon looked up to find Drogon and Rhaegal looming ahead. When Daenerys landed Drogon, Arya stared as if she were a child seeing Needle for the first time again. Their immediate circle was being kept open to them as Drogon easily swiped his head all around them, charring the remaining wights diving in their direction.

Jon couldn't run fast enough to Dany. His head pounded with each step, his beard pooled with blood that was dripping off of his chin. She was dressed in her magnificent white winter furs as she looked down at them, her eyes wide and urgent. Arya followed close behind Jon in a slight trot, gawking at the beast before them. Rhaegal came stomping down before them, causing a minor snowstorm from the whip of his leathern wings. Arya stopped dead in her tracks, but Jon continued after a hesitation.

There was a whine behind Arya, and she turned to find Nymeria, her head bowed as if to beg her to stay. Newfound tears threatened Arya’s eyes as she knelt before her wolf, who was three times the girth she had been when Arya last saw her. She reached out her hand to stroke Nymeria’s face before pulling herself in, wrapping her arms around the thickness of her fur. In secret, she allowed her tears to fall and melt into Nymeria’s shoulder, initiating another whine from her. Slowly, she took a half step back.

“Thank you, girl. You fought bravely.” Arya sniffed and wiped frustratingly at her eyes. “You saved my life.” Her voice cracked and she continued to run her hand along Nymeria’s soft neck. “Now you need to be with your family; be safe. I need to know you’ll be here when I return.”

With one more tight embrace, Jon and Dany watching from behind and the dead men being kept a distance away, Nymeria’s golden eyes stared unblinking unto her companion before it appeared that she understood what she was being asked of. With a guttural howl, Nymeria began to retreat into the forest, the host of her wolf family grouping behind her until they disappeared.

Daenerys stretched her arm down as Drogon lowered his body closer to the ground, the sound of Winterfell's exterior crashing behind them. Jon reached his arm up and fit his hand into hers and she began to pull him up, and he kicked off of Drogon's massive rib cage for a boost. Once he was settled behind Dany, he hoisted Arya up behind him but not before a group of wights sprung off of the remaining structure of the parapet behind them. Jon let out a grunt in unison with Drogon's hollar as he could feel the dead men landing on his back. Arya swiftly drew the catspaw dagger from her waist and hacked at what she could, her other hand firmly grasping a dragon spike while her feet clambered for a grip on Drogon. Wights were beginning to flood the ground beneath them, Rhaegal lunging in with his long neck and chomping down on as many as he could with a sickening crunch. 

Dany lowered her body flush against Drogon, a non-verbal cue for him to take flight. Jon swung his one free arm down the side near Drogon's rib cage as they became airborne, sticking his dagger straight into the empty eye socket of a wight. He then reached behind him, his thighs clenching onto the dragon's back to prevent himself falling, and used what strength remained to pull Arya up behind him. A couple of the wights dropped off, and when the last one came round from Drogon's chest up to his shoulder where Dany sat, dead, bony hands clawed relentlessly at her. Her breath was trapped in her throat when one icy hand grasped her shoulder and the other mere inches from her face as she used all of her strength to keep her grip on Drogon. The skin of her neck was quickly displaying jagged gashes - and just as Jon reached forward to thrust the wight off, the sharp whiz of Arya's dragonglass piece whipped past his ear and straight into the wight's mouth. There was an audible gasp from Dany as it all unfolded so quickly, and she looked back at Arya with gratitude. The wight fell lifeless to the ground.

Finally, they were freed. Despite everything, Arya looked as if she would burst with excitement, whereas Jon felt like he would empty the contents of his stomach. He was unsure where to hold onto, but was forced to wrap his arms around Dany's abdomen. Arya grabbed onto Jon's leathers and Rhaegal roared out behind them as he followed his brother. Winterfell crumbled further, and he and Arya watched with melancholy as they abandoned their home, the ash that were once corpses disappearing the further up they went. Jon narrowed his eyes, combating the cold drying them, and found the prominent figure of a White Walker with another commander at his side. The further they gained air, the more difficult it was to see, but Jon did not miss the unmistakable motion as its hands slowly raised into the air. In unison, the dark figures littering the castle grounds below came to life again, under the veil of death. The sight caused a knot to form in his throat.

Once they were above the cloud cover, the serene beauty of the night sky took Jon's breath away and just for a short while allowed him to forget the abandoned image below them. The moon was a thick crescent, and Jon was envious that it didn't have any inclination of what happened below it. Once they were flying level, Jon loosened his grip on Dany, having not realized how tightly he was grasping her. Her hair was twisted and braided together along her back; Jon admired how the silver seemed to glisten in the light of the moon. Arya was in silent delight of what she was experiencing.

He leaned closer to Dany's ear to be heard above the wind.  "You changed your mind, then?"

Dany turned her head slightly toward him, causing his nose to come into contact with her cheek. Hiding a smile, Jon backed away slightly. Arya was observing their behavior from behind, noting the obvious comfort they each had in their company. "I'll explain once we get to Dragonstone."

When his eyes traveled to the exposed bit of her neck, he noticed the blood staining her fair skin. Gripping onto Drogon as tightly as he could muster with his legs, he quickly unsheathed his dagger, sliced off a piece of his cloak, and pressed it gingerly onto the wound. There was a swift inhale of breath from her.

Jon's head was really throbbing in the bitter cold wind now, and he grunted when he attempted to move hair away from his face and grazed it. For the most part, the ride was a peaceful silence, everyone exhausted and taking in the beauty of the skies. Rhaegel flew just beside and below Drogon, and they would seem to speak to each other here and there. Mountain peaks and bodies of water passed below them as the clouds began to thin and part. After some time, they flew into a clearing and the brilliant scene of Dragonstone lay ahead. The moon cast a glittering reflection on the bay below, and Dany's council waited for them with torches at cliffside. The walls of Dragonstone were dotted with lit fires. Drogon circled before making a soft landing, while Greyworm helped Arya down first. Jon followed after but went too soon, pain clouding his judgement, and simply fell to the ground with a hard thump, casting the breath out of him for the millionth time that night.

"Oh, _gods_ ," he moaned as he cradled his head. He hadn't realized just how his body ached until that moment. When he removed his hands, Ser Jorah was pulling him to his feet. They met with such close proximity that it made Jon waver on his feet, but he corrected himself and they all turned to walk together.

"The others should be here by tomorrow morning, assuming nothing else crosses their path," Dany said hopefully, assessing Arya briefly. "I'll have a bath drawn for you, my lady, and fresh clothes and bedding as well."

It took Arya a full few seconds to realize Dany was speaking to her. She hadn't been used to being called 'my lady' except in jest by Gendry. Dany smiled at this, looking away shyly as Arya gazed upon her. "Oh, thank you..."

Varys and Tyrion walked silently behind them, Ser Jorah, Greyworm and Missandei off to the side. The dragons flew up ahead, never out of proximity to their mother. Daenerys watched them lovingly, and Jon took the moment to study her face while he had an opportunity. He was slower to react than normal tonight, and she came to notice his eyes on her, but rather than look away, she met his gaze. He smiled affectionately at her, and she returned the same.

Behind them, Tyrion and Varys shared one of their looks; they seemed to always be on the same wavelength. Arya fell back slightly to walk alongside Tyrion, who offered her a friendly nod.

"Lady Arya Stark. How far you've come," he said with an intrigued smile.

"I remember the first time you came to Winterfell. I knew you as 'the imp', and wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"Well," Tyrion responded, gesturing his hands toward himself as if presenting all of him to her, "here I am, many years later, older, probably fatter. I hope I did not disappoint."

Arya paused a moment. "I was cup-bearer for your father for a little while. He was a smart man, a rather kind man sometimes...but you were smarter for killing him."

This took Tyrion by surprise - both the fact that she was ever in the same room as his father, and that she empathized with Tyrion's decision to crossbow his father to death. "I'm not sure that I would use the words 'kind' and 'my father' in the same sentence, but then again he wished me dead. So I suppose you had that advantage."

"Don't worry. He only offered some words of wisdom, but he left without a goodbye. He was probably the first person I ever spoke to about my father's death, but he didn't know my actual identity. Then he orchestrated the death of my mother and brother."

A solemn expression rested on Tyrion's face, and he briefly squeezed her arm. "Your father was one of the last great men in my recent memory. Even if his wife wanted my head and your brother likely wished me dead, they did not deserve such undeserving deaths. Seems to be a rather popular request to wish me dead, actually. Cersei started a man hunt for me after Joffrey's death. Then your dear sister, who was then my wife, abandoned me to deal with the mess. But I suppose that's how she got to where she is now."

"She had many mentors, but she didn't get to where she is just by learning from them. I wouldn't have survived half of what she went through," Arya's voice lowered a bit.

Tyrion shrugged. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. You Stark girls are resilient. You've played the great game better than most. It's why you're alive and they're dead."

A few paces ahead, Jon's gait was becoming more of a stumble. He pressed his hand to his head, feeling the warmth of fresh blood seeping onto his scalp. It seemed the bitter cold air in the sky had suppressed the bleeding, but in a lower altitude it was coming back to life.

Without flinching, Arya continued. “I murdered House Frey. They killed my mother and my brother. I was with the Hound; that’s a long story.” she added when Tyrion shot her a confused look, but the entire thing was unanticipated. Everyone was silent, listening. She had spilled all of this to Jon not long after he had returned home, but hearing it again gave him a chill.

“I was there when they were killed. I was so close; I could have killed them all just then. I was so angry once I realized what was happening; they even killed Greywind when he was trying to break free from the stables. I tried to free him, but they got to him first. I would have killed everyone in my path had the Hound not knocked me on the head first.”

Tyrion stared at his feet, contemplating the scenario in his head. “If I were to apologize for all of my father’s wrong-doings, we’d be stuck on this cliff for quite some time. Regardless, I do offer my sincere apologies.”

There was the smallest of nods from Arya, who pressed her lips together firmly as Tyrion continued. “The Hound protected you. You wouldn’t have survived the company that kept at the Twins; too many powerful lords, and you only a child then.” He sighed a heavy sigh, looking out ahead of him. “When I got word of the red wedding, as they call it...I was still married to your sister, then. That was one of the few times in my life where I was truly speechless, but not for too long. I went to pay a visit to Sansa, to bring her the news and comfort her as much as she would allow within arm’s length, but she already knew, and though I’ve seen my fair share of horror, I am usually able to make myself forget sometimes. But, I will never forget the sight of the anguish and hatred in her eyes that I saw then. It was possibly the most primitive moment of her life, to finally realize how cruel this world is. No one is safe, and no one has a happy ending. All that she had been through with Joffrey before her was child’s play at that point.”

Arya remained silent, but the slightest softness fell upon her face.

“How did you abolish House Frey?” Dany asked quietly, and Arya regarded her for a moment.

“It would be hard to explain, and I’m not so sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

With a slight smile, Dany opened her mouth to press her more on the matter, but Jon stumbled as they reached the long, stony stair path that led to the entrance. 

"Are you alright?" Dany asked concerned, her hand reaching out toward him but not quite touching.

Nodding, he tried to push through it; they still had many stairs to go yet. The pain in his head was masking the sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs and mouth. He thought his ribs had broken, but his adrenaline had disguised most of his aches. Before long, he reached for the stone wall beside him and stopped.

"Ser Jorah, would you help escort Lord Snow to his chambers?" Dany requested, ignoring Jon's protest.

"Of course, Your Grace." Jorah was careful to hitch Jon's arm around his shoulders as he guided him up the rest of the way, Missandei following behind to be able to tend to any wounds.

Arya eyed Varys warily; he hadn't spoken a word since they had arrived. There was an air about him that she didn't like, and she wished more than anything to pick his brain about the letter he would have received by now from his little Winterfell birds. But she clenched her jaw shut, not wanting to begin a civil war in an unfamiliar territory.

\---

Jon was in and out of consciousness for much of the evening; Missandei had been assigned to help sterilize and clean up his wounds as best she could without a proper bath. As she was finishing up with the open wound to his bottom lip, his head moved slowly from side to side, barely aware of his surroundings.

"Dany," he murmured, to which Missandei paused and had to stifle a giggle.

"Missandei," she replied, unsure that he could hear her, but that concluded anything further he may have wanted to say. Once she was finished, she blew out the candles on his mantle and quietly exited to check on Arya’s needs before she would return to Dany’s chambers.

 

  



	6. Part VI - Convalescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missandei offers Dany poignant advice. Jon and Dany find some moments alone. The northerners convalesce. Dany makes a decision.

Missandei returned to Dany's chambers last after she had ensured their guests were comfortable for the night. As the heavy door was latched behind her, Dany was watching her with wonder on her face as if expecting something bad, but her soft expression was reassuring. She quietly walked over to Dany and began to loosen her braids while Dany began to slip out of her coat.

"All is well, then?" Dany asked quietly, unable to shake the image of the decrepit face clawing at her skin. She idly caressed the dried lacerations in her neck. It wasn't often she was wounded, an advantage to having dragons and a willful queensguard to surround her at all times, but this time she was blindsided. She gazed at the fireplace where the flames were building. What was she without her dragons if she couldn't protect herself, she wondered?

"Yes, Your Grace," Missandei purred, reaching the middle of her long braid now, combing her fingers to disentangle the strands. "I will take care of that for you," Missandei nodded toward the neck wound. Dany appeared absentminded.

There was a long pause, Dany standing in her small clothes as Missandei reached down to the end of Dany's bed to fetch her white silken sleep gown and slid it over her Dany’s arms. 

Dany covered herself and cinched the tie at her abdomen. "And Jon Snow?" She angled her face to look over her shoulder at Missandei, who was pursing her lips together in a resistant smile. "What is it?"

As Missandei unraveled Dany's hair into voluminous soft waves, she looked to her friend. "He will be alright. But he asked for you, when I was tending to him. I rather believe he thought I was you."

Even in the dim light of the small fire, Dany's features melded into something that resembled affection. "Oh."

Missandei gently fanned Dany's hair around her shoulders and went to the basin in the corner of her room. She stood there a long while, her hands kneading a cloth in the warm water and the strong scent of some sort of sweet, potent oil. When she returned to Dany, she observed her face before she began to dab at her neck wounds. The sudden breath Dany drew in made Missandei flinch, to which she apologized, but Dany shook her head. The oil stung deeply.

"Your Grace..." Missandei began softly, Dany breaking from her thoughts to look at her, but angling her head up. "May I speak rather straightforwardly?"

This made Dany smile crookedly. "If Lord Tyrion need not ask, then you most certainly do not." Missandei let out a small laugh, focusing diligently on her work in front of her.

"Are you quite fond of Jon Snow?" For some reason Dany had not expected the direction this was going, and she became tongue-tied. This topic was beginning to feel like a pattern. Her eyebrows lifted as she tried to arrange the thoughts flowing in her mind, but no words came right away. "Only...he is of similar age. No doubt he is handsome, even with his oddities..."

Dany was unable to suppress a laugh, intrigued. "What oddities does he carry?"

"Well, I've observed the Northmen aren't as fond with bathing. They take on quite a...rough appearance. He seems to often be lost in his own thoughts."

There was shared chuckling, and when it settled Missandei cleared her throat. "The way he looks at you...I've seen it before. I've had that before, with Grey Worm, and still do. It stems from adoration...Jon Snow is keen to brooding as we well know. But he looks like a different man when you're in the room."

Dany was half inclined to stop her if it didn't charm her to death. "Are you certain he isn't just admiring my dragons?" It was a sore attempt at modesty which fell flat with Missandei.

Gently, Missandei rotated her friend to face her, having finished mending her wound. Her face was more stern now. "He loves you, you know. And you love him. I’ve known you for some time. I feel I’ve gotten a firm grasp on men that interest you, and those that do not, and you both continue to find your way back to each other."

Dany's eyes fluttered in disbelief, unable to handle the soul-crushing gaze. She sat herself in the leather chair in front of the fire, which was finally casting a brilliant heat in the room to contrast the sudden chill.

"It's funny," Dany croaked, her voice failing her. "You're not the first to tell me such a thing. Lord Tyrion did as well, after Jon sailed back to Winterfell. I’m beginning to question my own awareness."

Jon's arrival to Dragonstone had them starting on rocky terms. There was the always-constant reminder of who her father was, the butting of heads of how Dany claimed the throne as hers by right, tales of an army of dead men that were nonexistent to her world until this King in the North came to her doorstep. He refused to bend the knee to her time and time again. For weeks they squabbled back and forth over whose purpose was more critical, but neither of them settled. Eventually it fell into a situation of agreeing to disagree, and a sort of harmony came between them. It wasn't without its moments, though. They usually wound up separated from their councils and tensions churned. But it slowly took on a different context that she was unable to put her finger on...until now.

Reminiscing, she felt a flutter in her stomach. Perhaps some of the friendly jabs and increasingly close proximity they found themselves in was mere passion. At the time it hadn't registered to her as such; it had been an age since she last felt the sensation. There was Daario, but it was purely a lustful relationship, despite him declaring his love for her. But whenever she was separate from Daario, she didn't miss him, nor long for him, at least not in that way. Not the way she had when Jon wasn't near, when he would spend much of his day assisting his men in mining the dragonglass or a makeshift war council with Ser Davos. It was becoming clearer to her now, even when it wasn't so much when Tyrion tried convincing her otherwise.

Missandei remained patient with her queen, not wanting to interrupt her contemplation, until Dany looked to her for some sort of reassurance. Missandei resumed. "What kind of queen would put everything else to the wayside and bring her armies and the only-surviving dragons left in the world, to a place unknown to her, without knowing what consequences may lie ahead...if it wasn't for a particular reason unrelated to power?"

Daenerys was fully vulnerable now, but she strangely felt calm about it. It was only then that the rush of two days' past flooded her memory. Varys had sought her out, having just received a raven from Winterfell. She had only just digested Jon's news that Viserion was under the command of the Night King, to which she wept privately in her chambers for hours, trying to make sense of it. And then Varys bestowed upon her a shattering piece of information: Jon was not Jon Snow; he was Aegon Targaryen, her blood, her family, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. She hadn't divulged this to anyone else yet; not even Missandei. When Varys dropped this information at her feet, hundreds of times had she asked him if he was certain, if he could be trusted, but he confirmed that Jon was in the company of his sister whom he trusted with his life. There would have been no benefit to him lying to her. Dany knew this to be true when Jon had been with her at Dragonstone, briefly touching on how he and his sister had a deeply-rooted bond that he had not had with anyone else besides Ned Stark.

It was in that moment that Daenerys knew she would divert her mission, and fly straight to Winterfell. She thought she would be too late, and when the image of the desecrated castle had fallen below her not long ago, she nearly lost hope of any survivors until she found Jon desperately pushing through the masses.

Still, she searched for any other excuse, afraid to give in just yet. "It's my duty to protect the realm, as the rightful queen. As Lord Tyrion said, it would do me good to have the northerners on our side."

Missandei sighed, then knelt down in front of Dany and clasped her hands in hers. "You don't have to put on an appearance, Your Grace. Not for me. I know you've known nothing but hurt and do not wish to pursue the chance of that happening again. But in my heart, I believe this Lord Snow is worthy of my queen."

That did Daenerys in, and when she blinked, tears fell to her cheeks. Missandei gently squeezed Dany's hands before she would leave her to rest.

\---

The following morning brought dreary weather, something they all would need to become accustomed to now that winter was here. Jon was asleep in his furs, his tunic he had peeled off sometime in the night after feeling feverish. Missandei had managed to wrap his ribs without him being conscious, and he wondered what kind of feat that had to have been like. The thought of a queen's counselor tending to him in such an intimate setting, and being half nude in the process, was a bit daunting to him. His hair had been freed of his tie and was a matted mess as he propped himself up onto his elbow, blinking sleep away as the room around him came into focus. He gently rubbed at the bandage that was tightly binding his bones together. As he hoisted himself up with difficulty, every muscle in his body objected. Hobbling sorely over to the water basin, he proceeded to wet his hair, massaging out the dried blood as it painted the water a pinkish hue. He sucked in a sharp breath of air when his hand made contact with the wound - the last he had remembered before he had woken in the Winterfell library was an agonizing thud of castle stone walloping his skull. He half wondered how it hadn’t been split open. As he gingerly combed his fingers through the thick mane, wringing out the cold water, he tied it back in a loose knot at the back of his head.

While everyone appeared to still be at rest at this early hour, Jon had resigned himself to the Chamber of the Painted Table and was busy drawing various maps and placing pieces of all different kinds of materials all along them. Each piece had a sigil etched or hand-painted in it to resemble each faction and house. There was a sudden presence in the shadows of the entryway, and Jon looked up to find Varys approaching, his arms hidden beneath his oversized sleeves. 

"Those tell quite a story," Varys said observantly, nodding at the deep punctures from his chest to abdomen. He suddenly felt very exposed, but his leathers and metal armor did his ribs no good as they chafed them horribly. His tunic lay in a chair behind him.

Jon nodded briefly, knowing already that there was an ulterior motive to his presence. "Not a good one."

Varys approached the table and peered down at Jon's work. "The Lady Melisandre expressed there was a reason you were brought back by the Lord of Light."

"The Lady Melisandre expresses many things," Jon quipped without stopping what he was doing.

"Do you suppose there is a truth to it?"

Jon was quickly becoming irritated in his small talk, but kept himself composed. "I don't know. I'm not one to believe in any gods other than my own. Even then..." he shook his head, knowing sharing this was useless.

It wasn't until Varys revealed a rolled-up, but unsealed scroll out of his deep sleeve. Jon stopped now, looking up under his brows.

"I received this from one of my little birds," he waved it in the air before letting it roll near Jon's hand on the board.

He didn't need to read it as he already knew its contents. There was a pause.

Varys cocked his head. "Tell me, Your Grace, how is it that Lord Stark managed to keep possibly the realm's largest secret private for twenty-three years?"

"He was honorable to his death, as you well know. And he loved his children unconditionally, even if they weren't his by blood," Jon responded confidently, choosing to disregard the use of his formal title.

"I admit I quite admire the man. More than I already had," Varys said.

"Why are you here?" Jon pressed, too distracted now as his face twisted into resentment. The aches and pains he felt all over his body were stirring a further agitation.

"I could ask you the same." The cockiness that Varys carried made Jon wish to reach across the table and pummel him.

"Your queen came to my rescue."

"Is she, though? My queen."

Jon was growing tired of this back and forth and he closed his eyes briefly. "Where are you going with all of this?"

"I live to serve the realm, Your Grace-" he ignored Jon's look of disdain, "and I have lived most of my life loyal to the Targaryens. Now there are two."

Sighing, Jon finally made eye contact with the Spider. "I will not sit on the Iron Throne. I belong only in the north. Daenerys has prepared her entire life, sacrificed all she had even when she had nothing. It is hers once she overthrows Cersei. If you were a smart man, you wouldn’t be considering treason, and least of all not sharing it with those who have faith in your queen."

Varys considered this for a moment; Jon wasn't convinced he was done with him yet, but seemed to accept that he would go nowhere with whatever it was he was trying to persuade with. He shuffled quietly out of the room, and Jon was left to his privacy for a while longer. Sighing to himself, his hands stopped what they were doing, leaning against the edge of the table. Daenerys had saved his life - their lives - selflessly, risking much of her armies and her dragons in the process. It weighed on him heavily, knowing that prior to her arrival, most of them would have been killed and re-summoned as soldiers of the army of the dead. It wouldn’t have mattered how hard and bravely they fought; they had been far too overrun, outnumbered, overpowered. They were forever indebted to her, and there was only one way he could think of that he could honor such altruism, but he feared the north’s abandonment. 

But his thoughts dissipated when Dany stepped quietly into the room as if she could hear him thinking. His face softened considerably, having been caught up within himself and with Varys moments ago. Her eyes briefly scanned him and trailed from his bandaged side up to the gash on his lip, and finally to the corner of his forehead where the laceration began. 

“Are you in any pain?” She inquired quietly, slowly coming to stand opposite him across the table.

He made a gesture with a tilt of his head. “A little. I’ve had worse.”

His comment wasn’t lost on her - the angry red gouges along his torso troubled her, but she refrained from staring.

“What about you?” His face contorted into distress at her own wounds to her neck.

When she looked at him again, it was with confusion, and then she realized what he meant. “Oh, it’s not too bad. I’ve had worse,” she said in jest, her smile making her eyes crinkle. Jon’s lips pulled into a wide smile, averting his attention back to the table below him.

For a few seconds there was silence, and a small awkwardness grew with things unsaid. Before too long, he turned to her. “I’m sorry about Viserion.”

Sorrow crept into her face then, and she began to crack before him, but collected herself. He had moved to comfort her, but was unsure if it was appropriate. “I know. I try to forget, but I’m grateful you told me. It hadn’t occurred to me until I had already left here that I might encounter him. And then...I don’t know that I would have it in me to kill him. I don’t know that Drogon or Rhaegal would, either.”

Jon swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling enclosed. “I saw him. He’s terrifying.”

Dany did her best to stay composed, but Jon knew she felt otherwise. “So where did he and the Night King go?”

“We’ll have to ask Bran when he arrives...but I don’t think he intends to stay north.”

Dany studied him a long moment. A growing rustle in the hall outside caught their attention, and Jon threw on his tunic before walking with Dany only to overhear that the ships arrived.

On the beaches overhead, Drogon and Rhaegal flew in wide circles over the incoming vessels.

Several ships boasting the Targaryen sigil amongst their masts came to rest on shore. Ladders were lowered to the shallow waters below them as people started to descend. Jon and Arya watched with eager eyes as familiar faces made their appearances. Jaime was one of the first; Brienne's body had been wrapped in a thick fabric and was lowered into his arms. His complexion was without color. Jaime then clutched to Tyrion, patting each other fondly on their backs, and a few Unsullied soldiers carried Brienne's body to open grounds where they would burn her remains. Next was Theon, who was carrying Bran down and found a large boulder at shore to sit him on. Jon and Arya took a few paces back to stand at his side. 

Theon then retreated back and offered up his hand to assist Sansa down safely. The kiss he had placed at her temple didn't go unnoticed, and Jon and Arya looked to each other at the same time. Sansa was still favoring one leg, and her creamy skin was littered with various gashes. Even with a limp, she rushed toward Jon and Arya, unable to hold back her sobs as she collapsed into their arms. Daenerys watched soberly just to their side, a part of her stinging with a desolate longing for the warm embrace of family. 

Sam followed, aided down by Theon as he cradled Little Sam close to his chest. Jon placed an affectionate kiss to Sansa's head before moving and sloshing through the shallow sea to pull Sam into a tight hug. Sam broke down into Jon's shoulder, Little Sam trying to get a look into his adoptive father's face. Jon's eyes pinched shut, allowing Sam all the time he needed to cry for Gilly at his shoulder. There was nothing he could say that would make him feel alright; Jon had seen Gilly's dismembered corpse and wished he could wash the image out of his memory. 

Ser Davos, gimpy from his leg injury, came up behind Jon and Sam and offered a friendly clap to their backs while the group returned to the dry sand. Jon, again, caught sight of Daenerys's face; she was doing her best to appear sure of herself, but he knew the look of loneliness. He felt it most of his life. It reminded him of the countless times he was in her position in Winterfell as a child. He was surrounded by family, familiar faces, but was never actually one of them. Never included. He would always watch from a distance, sometimes imagining himself as on the receiving end of a warm embrace. It made his heart ache, but he was powerless in such a crowd. 

Gendry was the last after the remaining northmen, Dothraki and Unsullied; Arya released an audible gasp, producing a look from Jon. When Gendry joined them again, he and Jon shared a hug and the lot of them resigned to within Dragonstone.

\---

After a few days of convalescence, each head member from the noble houses, and their councils who were able-bodied, regrouped in the Chamber of the Painted Table.

Bran spoke from a wooden chair toward the middle of the table. "The Night King is making headway toward King's Landing. It seems he wished to divert his path to Winterfell to destroy as much of it as he could and take up more arms before moving on."

The entire room was silent; it felt like nobody even dared to breathe.

"The remaining White Walker commanders have raised what remained of the dead and their numbers have tripled. But he is patient, and at his current rate, it will be some time before they make land in King's Landing. He will not fight without his army, despite a dragon in his power." Bran’s head shifted to face Jon, his eyes slower to follow as if he were calculating something mentally. “I have been trying to take control of his dragon. It is why I lost sight of him just before the dead arrived. I failed, and lost communication for a small while.”

Jon's eyes closed at the sound of this, reopening them to add stones to the symbolic army of the dead on the board, arranging them further down the King's Road toward King's Landing. Dany stared horror-struck; it was almost impossible for her to digest so much in so little time, but the overwhelming feeling of grief was becoming far too exhaustive now. If Bran were to warg into Viserion’s body, what would it entail? Would he cause her dragon, her child no longer hers, to self-destruct in order to disarm the Night King? Or simply control his body, giving the Targaryen and Stark armies the upper hand? Her head began to spin, and she had to will her attention back into the conversation.

"How many of our people are left?" Jon asked quietly.

"Six-thousand," Bran responded, causing visible stirring in the room. Dany watched Jon intently from across the table. There was a sourness in his stomach. Just over half of the northmen succumbed in a single night, and the Night King escaped their grasp.

Jaime took a step forward, craning his head to see the map properly. "Cersei has acquired twenty-thousand men from the Golden Company at a major expense to the crown. In addition, they have elephants. When I left King's Landing, there were fewer than ten thousand Lannisters, but Euron has an advantage at sea. His people built nine hundred ships that rest at Blackwater Bay. There have been scorpions fixed to them as well as lining the length of every wall of King's Landing."

The more someone delivered an awful piece of information, the further Jon felt he might vomit. "The army of the dead is one hundred thousand strong, more than likely more by now. And growing."

A dreadful silence followed; it appeared most everyone in the room accepted defeat for those fighting for the living.

"I have over ninety thousand Dothraki riders, seven thousand Unsullied soldiers, and two full-grown dragons."

Dany's voice was wholly unexpected and everyone turned to face her, as if wishing for her to speak again to be sure they heard correctly. Jon's eyes hardened, meeting her gaze.

She turned to Theon. "I expect we could rely on your sister's ships, should we need them. She will have somewhere over one hundred in her fleet." Theon nodded with a bow and a smile. "It's not an army and it may not be enough to meet Euron, but it's something we could work around."

Jon had a difficult time gawking at Dany with pure fondness, but finally snapped himself out of it to rearrange pieces on the board. It looked better. Much better. Now, they were a true threat to the dead, and now to the Lannisters and Golden Company. They were still outnumbered, but it was at exceedingly better odds. A small, elated huff of disbelief at what had just happened escaped his mouth.

"Ser Jaime," Dany called upon him and he turned to her with suspicious eyes. "Can I trust that your cause still lies with the north in addition to my own, and you would not betray either to return to your sister? That includes divulging anything mentioned in this room through any form of communication."

He breathed a silent sigh of relief; he had half expected to be reprimanded for his reputation as a kingslayer to her father. "You have my word."

Dany nodded, but not without a fire in her eyes. For the moment they concluded their war counsel and everyone but Jon, Dany and Tyrion left the room. Jon had stalled in the hopes he could have Dany alone for a time, but Tyrion showed no sign of leaving.

"Your Grace, I feel I should suggest something in favor of your protection," Tyrion began. "I would ask that we find a smith that can fit you and possibly your dragons into some sturdy armor. It would be unwise to go into King's Landing with all that will meet us there, unprotected. Especially knowing a great number of ballistas will be focused on you and them alone."

Dany didn't argue with this, even though she was used to counting on Drogon's thick hide to protect her, even she knew she was flying to her own death should she risk that now.

Tyrion considered Jon a moment. "Do you suppose Gendry could do us this favor? I know he didn't come this way for our queen's purpose, but I fear he is the only option we have within one hundred miles of Dragonstone. We don't have much time to find one, anyhow."

"Of course. I think he would be honored to," Jon croaked, clearing his throat.

With a bow, Tyrion left to seek out Gendry, and Jon was finally alone with Dany. Almost immediately they made eye contact. 

"What made you change your mind?" He asked gently, idly fidgeting with a piece of stone from the map board.

Dany placed her hands along the edge of the table. "After I realized I might lose you again."

He stopped breathing, scanning her face, not quite believing what she said. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked away. It pained him, but it was time. "I need to tell you something." 

Slowly, he walked over to the bustling fire, appreciating its warmth. Much of Dragonstone was without window coverings, and the bitter cold swept through his tunic with ease. Though, he was afraid the shudder he felt was less to do with that than what he was about to say. Dany followed him, standing within arm's length. Jon forced himself to look at her, and had prepared himself to begin the story of how Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, came to be.

But she already knew.

Jon's eyes searched Dany, darting between each of hers. His mouth had fallen slightly agape. "Varys told you, then." His voice was lowered to a near mumble, and he became frustrated that he hadn't been allowed to deliver this vital piece of information to her himself, but should have expected as much from the Master of Whispers.

Dany's face shifted and expressed so much in a short amount of time, he became more anguished with every passing second.

She sat herself down in a wooden chair nearby. "After my brother Viserys was killed, I was led to believe I was the last remaining Targaryen. That if I died, my house, my name...it all dies with me. And yet you've been here all this time, half a world away. It's why I changed course. I couldn't risk losing what remained of my only living family."

Jon felt relief flood him, even though he was unsure how he expected her to react.

When she looked up at him, her eyes were lined with tears. Her vulnerability shook him and he moved to crouch before her, his hands hesitant as they found hers and held them in her lap. The warmth of her skin radiated deep into his, his eyes heavy in thought. His conflicting mind was toying with him, confusing him. She was his blood relative, he reminded himself over and over again. Yet, he never wanted so badly than to kiss away her tears and make her forget her worries, if even for one minute. His emotions wrung him taut.

"I don't want that power, Dany. I belong in the north." The use of her old moniker so casually on his tongue as if he had always called her that forced a ginger smile. He hadn't realized that she had moved in close to him until he went to look up at her again. They were so close that he could smell her sweet breath on his face. He felt a different, foreign rush of pain; her eyes were knowing as they studied his dark eyes closely and fell to his full lips. He had forgotten how to breathe and became paralyzed.

"I'm a stranger to these lands. Once word gets around, you will have the love and support to take what is rightfully yours." She didn't sound angry, but Jon would be a fool to believe there wasn't heartache in her words. "I swore Varys to silence, but I'm unsure I can trust him to keep quiet for long. I understand Arya is aware of it as well."

Even though his heart was pounding in his chest, he felt remarkably calm. Had this been the beginning days when they first met, he would imagine him telling her all of this and expecting a scenario where she would cast him out of Dragonstone without looking back. But then he reminded himself that the Daenerys he was falling in love with was inches from his face, her hands closed securely in his, in anguish that her last surviving family was home.

"I trust Arya with my life, which is why I felt it only right that she knew. She’ll keep quiet, I promise you. You saved my life...twice. Despite knowing what you do about the Night King, about me, you risked yourself and your dragons knowing full well what you would be coming to. Without you, I would have died twice already, and there would be no King in the North or Aegon Targaryen to rally behind. You’ve saved and changed countless lives for the betterment of this world. How could anyone alive right now  _ not  _ wish to be under your rule?" His speech was passionate; emotions were getting the best of him.

The tears welled in her eyes finally spilled over and she closed the space to rest her forehead against his. He sighed, their noses touching, her breath tickling his face. She began to move her lips to his, but he resisted, pulling back just enough. The confusion on her face nearly broke him right then. Lifting his hands, he placed them at either side of her soft face, his sympathetic but pained eyes nearly drowning between both of hers. They were a brilliant blue, flecked with violet and green.

"I just need more time..." he began, but somehow words failed him when he needed them the most. Nothing he'd say could express the sorrow he was feeling in that moment.

Dany's hands found his as she rested them there, shaking her head. "You don't have to explain. I understand.” Her tone wasn’t angry, but Jon could have sworn then that she was beginning to choke on her words. With that, she rose from her seat and slowly walked out of the room. He wanted to be anywhere else in the world right now, but alas, he rose and headed to his own chambers.

  
  



	7. Part VII - An Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A celebratory feast is had. Jon battles with himself.

The following days had been torturous. Jon couldn't bring himself to be within close quarters to Dany; the intense longing he had for her clashed harshly with the fact that they were of close relation. Most days he would argue with himself mentally with what Arya had said; Targaryens often were romantic with one another, even with brother and sister. And though the custom was sometimes shared amongst northern houses, it still left a sour taste in his mouth. But the want was there, and often times he found that desire would supersede the issue of relation.

Daenerys made it clear to him that not only did it not bother her, but that they were more distantly related than many of their ancestors. She had been prepared to wed her own brother and bear him children until his death; reluctantly so, but that was more due to the abusive power he held above her.

Several moments they found themselves alone within Dragonstone, and the strain was so tenacious he was afraid he would give in and take her where they stood. After a few gentle reminders from Dany that none of that mattered to her, she assured him she would allow him his space to find solace in his newfound lineage and come to terms with whatever he deemed most comfortable.

It was getting to the point that any other company they held were beginning to notice - too often would one of them notice that something strange was buzzing between the two of them, but luckily, nobody had mentioned anything aloud.

A while later, Dany was spending an evening with Tyrion and Missandei, to which Tyrion had observed she was more overzealous than usual with her wine drinking. Finally she divulged her feelings with two of her most trusted advisors; the truth of it had been on her mind as if it physically wrapped her brain tight and never became unbound.  Both of them had shared a look, to which Dany glowered; they both had been right in their suspicions, but Dany was too stubborn to admit so.

“An alliance makes sense,” Tyrion offered, his head cocking to one side. “Do you remember what you said to Daario before we left for Westeros? That the best way to make alliances is with marriage.”

Though he was correct, again, Dany still refused to accept. Becoming physically annoyed at the situation, she began to pace the room. “It isn’t as simple as I once thought. How can I marry a man who refuses to follow his queen? The King in the North is unshakable. Is there another suitor?” Even saying it out loud didn’t convince herself nor the others in the room.

Tyrion served her a look as if she were quite ridiculous, sitting up further in his chair, taking a long swig of wine. “Unfortunately there’s quite a shortage of eligible bachelors, and none that I would allow you to become beholden to even if there were. Jon Snow is not only a remarkable choice, but he is one with a good heart, as I’ve told you before. You’ve seen it yourself. Stubborn, yes, much of the northerners are, and...if I dare say so myself, you are as well. Lovingly so, of course,” he added when she stopped to scowl at him. “Your intentions with marriage were mostly political...it’s an added benefit if you love the man you’ll be spending the rest of your life with. What is a queen without someone at her side to consider all her options, to challenge her, even from that of her king? Not to mention, who doesn’t like a little game of chase?”

There was a long silence as Tyrion’s words resonated, to which he hardly parted from his wine  goblet. “Are you ever _not_ clever?” Dany asked weakly, glowering, knowing long ago she lost this battle.

“Also,” Tyrion added, thrusting out his wine-holding hand for emphasis on what point followed. “The dragons seem rather keen on him, as well. In my experience, they are a good judge of character.”

“Now you’re getting cocky,” Dany refuted, taking a gentle sip from her chalice. _But I don’t deny it_ , she thought.

Shrugging assuredly, Tyrion smirked and winked toward Missandei, who was trying her best not to giggle at the back-and-forth.

\---

Then came the evening of the feast, once all of the survivors of Winterfell were on the mend and able-bodied again.

It was unofficially dubbed a celebratory feast, mainly in Dany's name, but she didn't know it yet. The northmen had convened and the room was filled with various discussions, echoing along the massive hall. Jon was mingling amongst familiar faces, having dressed himself back into his leathers and his hair tied back into a knot. The body heat sweltered in the room and was causing him to sweat, and his body still pained.

Jaime was seated at a table alone, a little separate from the crowd. He had not taken well to the loss of Brienne, and as Jon had discovered, had her body burnt in private, alongside Sansa in his company. Brienne's sword, Oathkeeper, had been lost in battle in the midst of the chaos, a relic he wished to recover after the war. Sansa, Arya, Gendry and Theon were grouped together in a friendly discussion. Jon's eyes scanned the room; there still was no sign of Dany, so he squeezed his way through the crowd and sought out Sam, who was seated with Ser Jorah. He sat at their table.

"Where's Little Sam?" Jon asked curiously. 

"O-oh, one of the northern ladies was kind enough to put him to bed for me, so I could, you know...get my mind off of…." Even though Sam tried to convince himself being present would be a good distraction, his face said otherwise.

As Ser Jorah went to open his mouth to speak, Jon was suddenly knocked to the floor by a heavy, foreign weight, to which he groaned at the impact it had on his not-yet-healed wounds. He was lying on his back and ready to reach for his dagger before focusing his eyes to see a tall, red-headed man standing over him.

Jon blinked as if he were dreaming, and Tormund yanked forcefully on Jon's hand until he was then hammered against his burly chest. Grey Worm and a few Unsullied guards were standing to attention behind them, prepared to draw their weapons until they saw that Jon wasn't doing so. Dolorous Edd and Beric Dondarrion reached around from behind Tormund to shake Jon's hand. The room had fallen silent for a long time until they understood the situation.

"My little crow," Tormund cooed, putting each hand on Jon's shoulders and holding him at arm's length to examine him fully.

"These men claim they are friends of yours, Lord Snow," Grey Worm said, spear in hand.

Jon finally smiled at the realization that his friends were alive; he had accepted long ago that they had died beneath the wall. Jon looked over at Grey Worm. "They are. And our allies."

With a nod, Grey Worm dismissed himself and the Unsullied soldiers. Tormund guffawed loudly and leaned closer to Jon, his wide eyes full of humor. "Those little fuckers thought I was some foreign invader." Another holler as he threw his head back, and Jon couldn't help but chuckle himself.

"How did you find us? How did you know we were here?" Jon asked inquisitively, utterly baffled.

Beric's smooth voice spoke up. "The Night King didn't leave much, but those who were dead had abandoned boats and ships near the Last River. We sailed to White Harbor until we reached Winterfell, where we met the red witch, the Lady Melisandre. Together we searched for any remaining survivors but found it had been left in ruin. The ground had been scorched, and Lady Melisandre confirmed as much that it was dragon fire. So we sailed again, thus leading us to where we last knew the dragons lived."

Frowning slightly, Jon looked between each of them. “What was she doing at Winterfell? I told her she would no longer be welcome there.”

Tormund turned half way before bringing his attention back to Jon. “She said something willed her there; that Lord of Light business. She took with her a broken sword, but…”

Drawing aside his layered furs, Tormund withdrew a familiar sight from his belt. Jon was beside himself, promptly taking Longclaw it into his hands. He unsheathed the steel to give it a look-over, almost expecting it to have been decimated.

"Not this one. Thought you might be needing that," Tormund taunted proudly.

A wide grin broke onto Jon's face, but they were soon turning their attention to the entryway where Daenerys, Missandei and Tyrion were filtering into the room. Jon couldn't breathe for the thousandth time that night. She was so beautiful that he felt an ache in his chest. She donned a white gown that ended at her feet, and the bosom beared another layer entailed with silvery dragon scales that blended into a ruby red, and it crossed asymmetrically over one shoulder down to her legs. The neckline was rounded and dipped slightly between her breasts, but remained modest.

Tormund found trouble averting his gaze as well. "Is that your dragon queen?" Her hair had been mostly let down in soft waves and ringlets tonight, with only a few braids. It softened her features; warmed them, even.

The room slowly began to notice she had entered and each time she was acknowledged, a loud cheer would erupt from each individual, eventually filling up the room at a deafening level. Jon smiled crookedly and began to make his way for the head table. Sitting beside him would be his siblings, and Dany would be accompanied by Missandei, Tyrion and Ser Jorah. As they gathered together, Jon couldn't help himself but to stare at her longer now that he had been within feet of her. Her cheeks had turned rosy from the welcome she received, and tried her best to remain unruffled, but the unexpected warmth was getting to her. The mannerisms of the northerners were far more raucous than those Dany was used to, and it was catching her off guard.

While everyone took their seats, Jon remained standing and waited until all attention was on him. He scanned the room with pride at all they brought together, broken faces and drunken cackles and all.

"My friends, my family...," he looked at each of them at the table, then back to the crowd. "I want to take this time to pay a tribute. First, to all of the brave men and women in this room, and those we lost, who risked everything they had to fight for a cause thrust upon them, for a king they chose. To defend the living against a former figure of folktales."

A cheer erupted, goblets crashed against each other. Chants of 'The King in the North' bellowed and bounced off the stone walls.

"We did not succeed, but not in vain. The Night King is bringing his army to King's Landing as we sit here tonight." A swarm of low voices rumbled amongst each other, muttering questions to the person beside them. "We lost much of our command. It is not enough." Another rumble, only louder, goblets banging against tables.

Jon turned halfway to face Daenerys who had been observing the reactions intently, looking directly at her. It took her some time, after the crowd had fallen silent again, for her to meet Jon's eyes. A slight arch of her brows in wonderment.

"Queen Daenerys Targaryen has kindly pledged her armies and her dragons to join our cause, without any conditions."

The crowd applauded so loudly, his ears were ringing. There were smiles all around, and a chant of 'The Dragon Queen' took precedence over his own. Dany's face was filled with shy tenderness, breathing shallow breaths.

Jon held his mug of mead outward in front of him. "Had she not come to our aid at the most dire hour, likely all of us gathered here now would not be supping on meats and mead. She selflessly made herself and much of her armies vulnerable and exposed when King’s Landing was within her grasp.”

The room had fallen eerily still with the exception of the sporadic guzzle and clearing of throats, all eyes dancing between Jon and Dany.

“That is why I pledge myself and the North to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons...and the true heir to the Iron Throne."

At first there was a deafening silence; gasps could be heard all around. Dany looked up at him quickly, unsure that she heard correctly, unsure if this was the right decision...

But then the room of hearty folk were on their feet, goblets and fists flung high in their hands, a chorus of chants yelling out Dany's various titles in a humorous mix of confusion. There were plenty of those who were a little less willing to do so, but it was to be expected as Jon had not warmed anyone to the fact that he was going to bend the knee.

After a moment, Jon took his seat. Dany revered him just to his left, and Jon met her gaze. How beautiful she looked as the warm light of the candles danced upon her remarkable features. In an attempt to distract herself from him, Dany raised her wine chalice to the crowd with the most genuine smile Jon had seen on her yet. He looked over to his right side and was met with a look of pride from Arya, Sansa more apprehensive. A small smirk played on Bran's face. The majority approval put Jon at ease.

\---

As time went on, more bodies were becoming fast asleep in a drunken stupor at their tables, or some took comfort on the floor. Small groups resigned themselves to their quarters for the night. Tormund was often the loudest and most belligerent voice in the room, having found his way to the head table, he was keen on making everybody laugh until their dinners came up. He grasped a horn full of mead in his over-sized hand, and with each gesture a little more spilled onto the people below him. Jon was seated on the table, and had just been in the middle of Tormund and Sansa pressuring him into gulping his ale in record speed. Eventually he gave in, and turned around to see that all of Dany's council had all but disappeared, with the exception of Tyrion who was with his brother. The image reminded him of his childhood - as it had back on the shore when they received the ships of northern survivors - when he was forced a seat in the corner of the Winterfell dining halls, tucked away in the shadows and hidden from everyone else. This time, he wasn’t apprehensive to initiate inclusion.

A slight buzz weighed on him as he reached his hand down the length of the table, wincing as it stretched his mending wounds. She smiled at him sweetly, eyeing his company a little warily before she took his hand and walked over to join them.

She felt a little disengaged despite her elation; most of the people she knew had claimed their beds for the night. Jon leaned back onto his hand beside her, not entirely avoiding the close contact as Dany stood beside him.

"Have you seen much combat on dragon-back...Your Grace?" Arya peered over from where she sat, attempting to familiarize herself with proper etiquette. She typically didn't care for such things, but the admiration was clear in her eyes for this dragon queen.

Dany's eyes brightened, holding her wine chalice close to her. "Quite a bit, yes. At first I was impatient; I felt they were growing too slow for my liking."

"Ah, the dragon queen," Tormund purred roughly, slinging a heavy arm around her shoulders. Jon erupted in laughter; the contrast that was a wildling, and a drunk one, beside a queen of tact was too much for him. Dany reddened, her lips pursing in a failed attempt to recoil. Tormund's eyes were wide and wicked as they flit between the likes of Jon and Daenerys, one eyebrow of his lifted near the crown of his hair. Jon watched him, anticipating his next outburst.

"You two fucked yet?"

In the snap of that comment, all turned uncomfortable. Jon sat up now, running a hand down his face in this now miserable affair. Dany looked around the room as if begging for someone to take the man away.

Tormund turned quickly to Dany, mead spilling down the side of her gown much to his ignorance. She flinched at the coldness. "Best not; this crow has such a tiny pecker he could sire no sons. Big furry dragon wolf babies they'd be! But you can't just fuck with your _eyes_!"

"Alright, alright," Jon interjected, suppressing a chuckle while Dany wished she had new company. The subject of childbearing was still a rather sore subject, even in jest. Jon pat his good friend roughly on the back, but subsequently ushered him away. Tormund winked at Jon, made a vulgar thrusting motion with his hips, before he went on to harass other guests.

Jon turned to Dany and could only give her a look of apology, to which she reciprocated with a gentle bow of her head. It took longer than expected for him to tear his eyes away from her, and soon everyone else was stuck in their own conversations. Ghost had been wandering along tables, finding it easy to steal scraps of food now that most had thick heads or were unconscious.

"I should probably go change my clothes and get some rest," Dany announced quietly, gesturing to the spills that Tormund had doused along her dress.

Just for a second Jon's face begged her otherwise, but instead relaxed into an easy smile. "Alright. Sleep well."

Dany hesitated, unknown as to why to him, before she retreated out of the hall. Jon watched her as she went, taking a swig of his ale, finding it impossible to trail his attention away from the detailing of her hair, then along where her cloak had parted to her right side to expose the soft skin of her neck, the curvature of her back, the roundness of her backside...

But he was all too soon interrupted by more company, a few northerners who wanted to air their gratitude to their now-former King in the North. He soon realized he was growing overly hot and excused himself after some time. A bit of fresh air would do him good, he thought. As he left the hall and the heavy doors closed behind him, he took comfort in the silence of the passageway. His head was buzzing, but whether it was an effect of the alcohol or the noise level, he couldn't tell. Eventually he found his way outside and welcomed the cold air against his skin. He drew in a deep breath and wandered the grounds until he stopped along a grassy cliff side.

The moon was full and cast a mirror of itself against the gentle ripple of the waters below against the cold haze. Drogon and Rhaegal's silhouettes flew brilliantly against the moon, stopping Jon in his tracks to observe the view.

He often wondered if his blood father, Rhaegar, was as excellent a rider as Daenerys. Or if he even rode at all. Sometimes his thoughts would trickle into the territory of what if he could ride one, but usually dismissed any idea of that. At the very least, he knew he didn't adopt his father's ability to sing. The fact that he knew so little of his blood father and mother made him quite melancholy; but now he understood why Ned excluded Rhaegar from his history lessons.

He relished the peacefulness the bitter night air brought, even though there was an ever-present mist that never went away with the winter season. He wasn't sure how long he was standing there, thinking about his mother and father, when there was a stir in the grass behind him.

"Jon Snow... _Aegon Targaryen_."

He hadn't expected to hear Dany's soft voice, but when he looked over his shoulder, she was approaching him. She still had the same gown on. When she was next to him, she moved her attention from him to her children flying freely in the night sky.

"Do they not sleep?" Jon inquired, watching while one dragon playfully dove for the other in a lovely display of dance.

"They do, but I believe they like to take advantage of the tranquility that the night brings." They both watched the dragon dance until they moved on to be obstructed by the castle walls.

Jon turned to leave the cliffside, but not before waiting for Dany to catch up with him.

"What are you doing out here?" She asked curiously, moving a strand of loose hair that had blown into her face.

"I don't much care for big crowds. It was getting too stuffy for my liking." Jon continued on, unsure of where his destination was exactly, but he had never explored this side of the island before. He observed her once again. "Aren't you cold?"

Eyes on her feet below, watching as her boots crunched the frost that enclosed the grass, her brows lifted in thought. "Actually, I can't help but feel warm. I cannot believe you did all of that, for me, even if many of them didn’t look too thrilled about it," she said with clear admiration that was laced with worry.

Jon looked up at the night sky, a small smile on his face. "They’ll come around. I’ll see to it. It was the very least I could offer in return for all you’ve done for me...us."

They came across a long path on the island that curved downward and behind a cliffside wall, to reveal an opening, cave-like in structure but vastly larger. Inside it were several steaming hot springs. It reminded him of Winterfell, and for a moment he felt sad thinking about his home in ruin.

"Perhaps not the very least," Dany replied, her voice more of a murmur. Jon looked down at her, regretting his decision as her heavily-lidded eyes contemplated him. He had recognized this stare before; like the first time they met and he had been stripped of any weaponry and ships, she hadn't declared him a prisoner yet, but appeared to enjoy the possibility of a northern stranger held captive. Other times it made an appearance when they were amidst a shouting match and she would often challenge him, or when she outwitted him.

But now it carried a different significance; knowing, begging, lustful. Before he could say anything, her hand found his beneath his cloak. The cool air escaped his slightly parted lips in visibly small puffs into the air, his mind becoming a jumbled mess.

Dany's other hand found its way to his chest plate, careful with every movement as if waiting for him to deny her again. But he was frozen still, cemented to the ground below him. His head was spinning now, her face found itself closer than it had been not long before.

There was a small lift of her eyebrows, a silent question. Chest heaving, his arm snaked around her waist, her lips parting in a tentative smile as he drew her closer to him. Her bare arms were prickled from the cold, so he enclosed her into his cloak. Her body relaxed in his, but his became more tense with the intimate closeness.

The growing laughter from the cliff above them woke them from their stupor, and Jon came back to his senses. “We should probably get some rest now.” His voice was barely audible, and the defeat that flashed across her face as she backed away from him nearly caused him to reach for her again. Inwardly, he cursed himself for the lingering conflict in his head, wishing it were more simple.

They walked back together in silence, and he took notice of her quivering skin. She no longer was warm, but cold from rejection. He unclasped his cloak and wrapped it along her shoulders, unable to deny the fact that she looked radiant even in northern pelts. She offered him a small smile of appreciation before crossing the thick material within her arms, and they made their goodbyes for the night when they reached the mutual hall leading to their bed chambers.

\---

Hours passed into the night and Jon, per usual, was having difficulty sleeping. More than that, his mind was preoccupied with increasingly wanton thoughts of Daenerys that he couldn’t shake. Tossing and turning, pacing and splashing cold water from the basin onto his face did him no favors, and only awoke him further. Since his death and resurrection, a dormant darkness had found life within him when he returned to the living. Before his murder, his temper could flare when needed and he often struggled between what was noble and just or superfluous, but always chose nobility. Now, he had become more strong-willed in his decisions and far less tolerant of those who opposed him. He understood what it meant to be able to lose everything in a flash, even unexpectedly so, and begin to regret not having a fulfilling life or taking risks he wouldn’t have otherwise considered. Sometimes, he would wonder what his previous self would have done in a given situation versus his current self.

But now he was drinking on bursting through the castle walls to make love with Daenerys, something his pre-murdered self would not have even weighed an option, especially as a bastard boy. As he lay in his bed, staring into the darkness out toward the bay as if his decision was there somewhere, he sat up and ran a hand through his thick bed of loosened hair. Closing his eyes, he sighed deeply, and made his choice.

\---

Dany had called on Missandei after hours of sitting alone at her fireplace, and the flames were beginning to die out, her room becoming increasingly darker and cold. The solitude became all-consuming after a while, and as ever, felt a hot bath would assist in cleansing her thoughts away. Nothing was worse than being alone with her thoughts, as they usually dug her further into a hole she could not escape. She had been grateful that Missandei hadn’t yet gone to her chambers for the night; she had spent most of it away with Grey Worm at some point during the feast, away from all of the boisterous northerners.

Her fire had just been stoked and bath filled and she didn’t allow it a second to cool, stripping off her smallclothes as she slipped into the scorching liquid, the scent of lavender and lemon filling her nose. Evidently, Missandei had been aware of her stresses without any verbal confirmation, and knew which oils would be essential.

Missandei had just been loosening Dany’s braids when a soft knock came at her door.

“Your Grace? Are you expecting anyone?” Missandei questioned quietly, her hands slowing to a stop in Dany’s hair.

Dany sat up a bit straighter, considering not even answering her visitor after she had only just begun to calm her nerves. “No...will you see who it might be?”

With a nod, Missandei padded across the cold floor and cracked the door just enough. A familiar voice balked at the other side from where Dany sat, and she insisted to herself that she must be hearing wrong. Missandei responded softly to the visitor, closing the door temporarily before returning to Dany.

“It’s...Jon Snow,” her voice almost failed to hide the intrigue, and Dany immediately felt warmer than the water she lay in. “Shall I fetch your robe?”

Dany stared at the closed door, weighing her options, wanting to tell herself that she didn’t want to face him just now...but perhaps he wanted to offer an apology, and was unable to sleep because of it. It had been a rather rambunctious night, after all.

“No, he may enter. And you should get some sleep,” Dany responded pleasantly, offering her friend a reassuring smile in return. Missandei gave Dany a knowing look, her lips pressed in a  restrained smile as it did when they discussed the men in their lives, and went to the door one more time, her figure soon replaced by Jon’s.

It was almost too dark to see him from where she sat, the light of the flames not quite reaching him. But from what she could see, his hair had been untied and he had been without his armor. For a moment it looked as if he would leave, but then willed his way toward her. She watched him with increasing infatuation, battling within herself to level her breathing.

He stopped not far from her, but far enough so that he couldn’t quite see all of her beneath the water, the flames bouncing along the still liquid.

“Did you need me for something?” She asked earnestly, her voice delicate but pressing.

The shift at his throat where he swallowed and then paused was visible to her. “Yes,” he muttered, finding it impossible to articulate further. Dany’s eyes warmed; she knew why he came, but Tyrion’s words echoed in her head: “ _who doesn’t like a little game of chase?_ ”.

He had made her wait, and now a sudden turn in her inclined her to return the favor. After a minute, watching as he became physically uncomfortable, she began to stand, the coldness of the air biting at her wet skin. The discernable rise and fall of his chest was obvious even through the thickness of his clothes, and when he began to walk to her, her hand met his chest just inches away from her. A wicked smile pulled at her lips, and he looked down at her with the appetite of a wolf, but now she was bathing in his torment.

She then stepped out of the water, closing the space between them momentarily, his unease glaring at such a close proximity, and turned to grab her robe from the back of a nearby chair. It was a royal blue silk material that didn’t cover much underneath, and she enjoyed the defeat in his eyes.

Without moving away from him, she slowly began to claw through the remaining braids in her locks, never ceasing eye contact with him. “Why are you here, Jon Snow?”

He licked his lips and finally averted his eyes, validating to her that she was winning. From what she had observed, his eyes had not left her face, not daring to seek what else stood before him. “I think you know,” his voice came rough, and she did her best not to give in just yet.

Feigning a frown of confusion, she continued to unravel her hair subconsciously. “I don’t think I do,” she taunted, the volume of her voice a murmur.

His dark eyes found hers and he was becoming increasingly agitated, but the hunger in them never ceased. He took one pace forward until he was so near her, she could feel his rabid breath on her skin and his clothing against her. The want between her legs was burning in quick rhythm, her lower abdomen churning.

Finally, she fanned out her hair slightly, her eyes darting between his and his full lips before she swallowed the deep grey-chocolate hue of his eyes when the fire danced just right. “Take off your clothes,” she demanded quietly, to which he obeyed without delay. He began to unlatch all of his various straps, belts, and leathers. Dany watched with increased hunger, doing her best to remember how to disrobe him in future, until she couldn’t wait any longer, and her hands found the ties to his breeches when he lifted his tunic off to reveal his bare top to her. 

Dany had seen the old wounds a couple of times before, but in her current emotional state, they became more meaningful. He watched her as she gently pressed both hands against his chest, her eyes trailing from the curvature of the gash above his heart to the six below, leading to below his navel. Her attention was drawn back to the one in the middle of his chest; it had been a clear attempt with the twist of a dagger to cut his heart out. It caused an ache in her stomach and Jon could read it in her face.

In a swift movement, his hand gently lifted her chin and for a minute they only breathed staggered breath on each others lips before he swooped in and took her full on the mouth. She exhaled deeply at the taste of him, the lingering flavor of mead still on his tongue, her hands trailing down to his breeches to continue the unraveling of its laces. They loosened and dropped to the floor, and never parting, he kicked off his boots, his fervor growing steadily with each passing second.

His teeth clenched gingerly down on her upper lip and he pulled at it when her hand grazed his hardness, almost feeling like he could lose himself just then. She squeezed it teasingly, a low moan erupting from his chest that made her stomach flutter with delight. 

"We should probably get you out of this," he muttered huskily against her mouth. His left hand gripped a portion of the robe at her hip.

The corners of her lips curved into a provoking smile. She began to wriggle out of the thin silk, leaving her shoulders bare. Jon pulled himself away from her just enough to consider them a moment before his lips lightly brushed against them, placing small, delicate kisses in the curvature up to her neck. A low groan of appreciation escaped her, and he was starving. One of his hands slid along her back until he found where the tie was cinched.

"Why do you southern girls dress so fancy?" He teased into her ear.

A small laugh sounded from her as she waited patiently. "To attract northern fools, I suppose."

"Aye, I am a fool," he mused playfully. He took a half step back and his hands gently began to pull the robe down from her arms, over her full breasts, then he moved in closer, kissing at her collarbones. He trailed his lips down between her breasts and the slight inward dip of her abdomen, his hands peeling the material down with him. She huffed as he continued down, then pulled his head back to remove the robe fully.

With his hands resting at her waist, he straightened himself back to his feet. The sight before him could turn him rabid, but he did his best to hold back. 

" _Gods_ ," he panted, drinking her in. 

Her heavy-lidded eyes considered him momentarily. “I wasn’t finished with you yet.” Jon examined her skeptically, and she motioned for him to step into the bath. His eyes slightly narrowed at her, ravenous, but he did as told. She enjoyed the hotter temperatures of her baths, but wondered if Jon could muster it. He sucked in his stomach at the heat, briefly pausing. Gasping for air, the steam filled his lungs and warmed him. Smirking, she brought over a warm cloth from her basin and joined him. They never looked away from one another, as if he were a tentative predator and she, prey that was testing his patience. 

When she lowered herself, she straddled her knees on either side of his legs and sat near his lap. Desperate for anything, his arms slid down the length of her thighs, coming to rest beneath them as if he were restraining her from leaving him again. With a tender smile, she gradually pushed him further back against the wall of the tub and began gingerly washing at his head wound.

A swift inhale was drawn through his nose at the contact; it had hurt almost as much as the morning after.

“Sorry,” she whispered, wringing water over the healing lesion and letting it rinse onto the floor below. He closed his eyes, his hands slowly running along her legs. She inched closer to him for a better reach, shifting her hips until she came to rest at his pubic bone, his hardness fixed between them. His shoulders flexed as she stirred on him, and her lips twitched into the smallest smile. As she was inches from his face, she allowed her eyes to study his features, from his facial scarring, his curled dark tresses, his long eyelashes, his full lips, his coarse facial hair that she sometimes wondered what it would feel like against her skin.

Moving closer, the smallest of relaxed smiles spreading across her face, in such close proximity she could feel his breath against her skin. Slowly, she ran her hand lightly along the side of his face, upward to comb through his thick mane of hair. Bringing it down again, her thumb trailed along his parted lips, coming to rest against his neck. Jon opened his eyes, the corners of his lips forming the beginning of a smile. Lifting his hand, he slid it to back of her neck, then pulled her to him. The kiss was patient at first, as if they had done it many times before, and then he deepened it with such fire it could stir a dragon. Dany pulled him flush against her, her mouth parting open as his cock rested firmly against her and the cloth dropping limply to the floor below. They kissed fiercely, each of them exploring the other's body with needy hands.

As they were breast-deep in water, he sat himself up and hitched her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, their chests rising and falling in a similar rhythm. Dany craned her head down to kiss along the scar that rested above his eye, along the roughness of his beard, finding his mouth again.

Slowly, Jon angled his hips, his back leaning against the bath wall behind him for extra support, and lowered Dany until she was just grazing the head of his cock. The sensation caused her to break from his mouth with a wet smack and low whimper. Jon's breathing came shuddering, and his hands grasped her backside and he lowered her further until he was fully inside her.

He groaned, his mouth agape in a loud gasp, Dany reciprocating. He slowly, teasingly, lifted her up and down his length, propelling his hips to thrust deep until their skin met. Dany was beside herself, shivering in his arms. One of her hands clawed at Jon's shoulder, the other gripping the curls of his hair.

Dany worked her fingers around the locks, tangling her hand in them while she pressed her mouth against his, their movements becoming faster and frantic. Dany rolled her hips in small circles, Jon unable to contain himself as his head whipped back in blissful agony. Dany took advantage and kissed at his neck, his eyes squeezed closed as his panting filled the room. He freed one hand and fondled a breast, the ends of his curls dripping from the steam dampening his hair. His finger ran over her nipple, drawing a moan out of her.

With a more forceful heave of his pelvis, Dany cried out his name, which brought him closer to his climax. She felt so weak that she was having a difficult time keeping up, but refused to give in just yet. Angling herself down, she placed desirous kisses among his exposed chest. Jon brought his head back up, his face twisted in agony, quickening his pace now. Dany gripped the edges of the tub behind Jon and urged her tongue into his mouth, and soon she was taking over. She used her arms to hoist herself up, and once she could feel the head of his cock at her entrance, she plunged down in long, rapid strokes. Jon searched for anything on her body to hold, the ache in his loins becoming overwhelming. His hands kneaded into her breasts, and he heaved himself forward with what he could muster, taking a nipple in his mouth as his tongue lapped over it eagerly. Her mouth fell open and she forced herself to restrain a cry, her clouded mind nearly forgetting they had other guests in the castle. Her arms wrapped themselves around the back of his neck, back arching into him.

When Jon lifted his head to kiss her passionately again, a sob of pleasure fell into her mouth from his as she rode him confidently, the water beneath them wading vigorously.

" _Fuck_ ," Jon sighed against her lips, and as Dany gained momentum, each of them finally reached their peak and as Jon became undone with a loud growl, Dany whimpered longingly, firmly biting down on Jon's full lip to silence his cry so that they wouldn't give themselves away.

They sat together, panting against each others faces to find their breath, becoming unraveled and drowning in the fact that this was real, they were finally together, cradling each other, all of their barriers were now broken. Once they had settled, they slowly parted and Jon sat up a little straighter, detaching himself from her, but not first without a small sigh from Dany. Her face was damp, and Jon's beaded with sweat. 

"My queen," he whispered with a rugged voice, her hands finding their way to the sides of his face as her thumbs gently glided over his cheeks. Their bodies shook as they came together for a soft, tender kiss.

There was a small breeze from the frigid air outside that was creeping its way into the room and making Dany’s teeth chatter. Without letting go of her, Jon got to his feet, Dany wrapping her legs around his torso in a fit of giggles. Gently, he laid her down along the bed, the ends of her hair dripping from the water. For a long while as his chest became more shallow in its movement, he allowed himself to soak in the sight of her, admiring all of her before him.

Grinning shyly, Dany reached up to pull him down beside her, half on top of her, and he brought both ends of a fur-covered blanket over them to keep the remnants of the warmth inside.

Dany sandwiched her legs between his, her arm resting lazily across his torso. Jon laid his head on his arm and held them possessively together, a sudden exhaustion overcoming him.

They lay there in blissful silence, listening to the gentle crackling of the fire. If Jon had to choose a time to die, he would have chosen this moment. Dany drew her hand gently all over his muscled abdomen, caressing around his old stab wounds with loving strokes.

Jon rested his lips at the top of her head, all of his troubles long forgotten. "Did I satisfy you, Your Grace?" Jon growled quietly, a weary smile growing on his face.

Dany simpered, propping herself up onto one elbow only to shudder as a cool draft crept into their bundle of warmth. She shifted until she lay nearly flat on top of him, causing a developing hardness between Jon's thighs again. He was unsure if he had enough energy left in him should she ask to take him again, but he gladly would.

"What do you think?" She asked, combing back his dark tresses away from his face, her thigh grazing him mockingly.

"I think you should let me rest before I banish you from this room," he rumbled weakly, twitching when she didn't stop, slowly adjusting so she now lay atop him. He grew weak in his legs, still freshly sore from their play.

"I'm your queen, now, and these are my chambers," she said, eyebrows raised as if challenging him to object, but he could feel a deep burn in his lower abdomen, his hands grasping her upper thighs, craving. Taking this as approval, she fully seated herself onto him, the frigid air nipping their bare skin. His chest began to steadily rise and fall in quick bursts again while he soaked in the image of all of her mounted onto him. He went to sit up to kiss her, but her hand met his chest and she gently forced him back down.

At a slow, deliberate pace, she barely touched him but slid up and down his length in delicate movements. Jon clenched his jaw, the muscles in his cheeks protruding, refusing to take his attention away from her. Her hands rested firmly on his toned stomach, ever so slightly adding more pressure with his hips, and occasionally teasing him with her entrance.

"What does my queen command?" He could barely get the words out, bringing a fist to his mouth and biting down when she pressed all her weight onto his cock.

She stopped, and he allowed himself to breathe, but looked at her with a plead in his eyes. She did her best to remain stoic, but her eyes did her no justice. "I command you to rest," she said as she started to bring her leg back around, but he sat up and placed her back where she was, producing a squeal that he muffled with his mouth.

"Is it treason if I violate your terms?" He breathed against her lips, swaying his hips and crashing into hers.

"Only if you don't find your way to your own bed," she nibbled at his lip but broke away from him, Jon looking at her, eyes now begging.

"How will I manage that without being seen?" He asked, hands running along her thighs.

"I expect most will have gotten around to their quarters one way or the other by now," she whispered, smoothing a hand along his shoulder. 

“Do you want to be rid of me so soon?” He taunted, his rough hands running over the curvature of her rear, grazing her inner thighs beside her sex which stirred a sharp inhale from her.

TIlting her head to the side, his lips climbed up along her collar bone and lightly nipped at the skin of her neck, hands trailing until they rested at her hips and he began to press them down onto him in a slow rhythm.

A long sigh escaped her lips, and he wrapped his arms around her to flip her onto her back, his tongue diving into her mouth eagerly. Her hands found his muscled rear and she pulled him down, lifting her hips against his as his mouth fell open with a whimper when the wetness of her glided along his length. He pulled back and her legs parted as he fully sheathed himself inside her again, this time in a meticulously slow pace. A quivering gasp erupted from her mouth and he trailed tender kisses all along her neck, down her collarbone, her breasts, and when he reached her face again, he licked her lips before crashing his mouth into hers once more.

In-between gasps and caresses, they would find each others eyes and Jon would become so entranced that she was here, she was _his_ , that she would have to initiate him further as he drowned in the violet-blue hue of her eyes. For Dany, her head spun so wildly that at times she thought she may be dreaming, and then when he looked at her the way he did, as she had been reminded of so many times before by everyone else who had noticed, she realized it was real. He was real. He was hers.

“ _Jon_ -” she cried softly when the friction of his pelvic bone rubbed against her sex, her back arching into him and her head thrown back. Jon buried his face into her neck, quickening his rhythm until they both reached their finish in a staggered delay. Clammy from their play and the mixture of heat and cold, he halfway collapsed onto her, his ear resting just above her heart.

Dany’s hands gently combed through his dark locks, his head rising and falling with her every breath. “I don’t think I’ll have much energy left for tomorrow,” she whispered, eliciting a wry smile from him as he turned his head to face her. He used his elbows to crawl up closer to her face, his calloused hands smoothing over her cheeks while he gawked at her. 

“You’ll need to be ready for me,” he contended huskily, her soft hand resting at his side while the other brushed back the curls framing his face. With his hair let down, he looked like a sweet, naive northern boy.

“I believe it’s the other way around,” Dany challenged playfully, while he caught her hand within his and leaned down to place a tender kiss to her smooth, supple lips.

They took advantage of the absence of anyone else in the castle and lay together within each others’ arms, until Jon, reluctantly, suggested he go back to his chambers to at least try to get some shut-eye before dawn. Slowly, he began to dress himself, and Dany studied him lovingly and lustfully as he did so. Her eyes traveled from his curly dark mane to his darkened eyes, the facial hair that tickled her skin, his broad shoulders and the veins that popped though his muscled arms, his chiseled chest, the abs that took on even more definition with the deep shadows contrasting with the fire light. The creases at his hips that dipped into his pelvis and manhood, the strong thighs and his lusciously full arse that she had loved to wrap her hands around.

More than that, he was sweet with her, gentle and never pushing or forcing. He was the first lover she took that considered her own feelings, especially knowing that she struggled with her male counterparts in the past. The man she met a mere few months ago who had been so bundled beneath layers of fur, leather and metal plating, who stood before her in the raw.

When he was pulling his tunic over his chest, his eyes found hers and they smiled. “Don’t look at me like that or I might not be able to leave this room tonight,” he gingerly cautioned, Dany rolling onto her stomach to admire him. The playful side of him, completely opposite of the man she met the first day he arrived, was a welcome treat for her.

“I would prefer it,” she cooed as he pulled on his boots lastly, then walked over and leaned down to kiss her.

“Eventually,” he promised, then wished her a good rest of the night before quietly exiting her chambers.

It was successful until, when he descended the narrow hall leading to his chambers, Tyrion stumbled through, a wine chalice in hand.

He looked between both Jon and behind him at Dany’s chamber doors, then drunkenly guffawed. "You two fuck louder than horses," he snorted, staggering past Jon. "Sleep well...or not."

Unsure what to think about Tyrion knowing, Jon scanned the area to be sure no one else was around. When he was all clear, he retreated back to his room with a full heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAAAH. I was so nervous to post this one - I hope it lived up to expectations. Thank you for reading!


	8. Part VIII - The Famine of King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The common folk grow destitute in King's Landing, and Cersei is faced with revolt.

“You Grace, the common folk are growing ravenous.” Qyburn stood apprehensively behind his queen, ever so slightly escalating the volume of his voice to enunciate the crisis growing. The Mountain presided ever still at Cersei’s side.

Cersei stood overlooking in the Red Keep, hands clasped in front of her. “Good. When the dragon bitch closes in on the city, they will depose her and beg for me as their queen to fill their empty bellies.”

Qyburn shifted nervously behind her, biting his tongue but then deciding otherwise. “Your Grace...the Wall has long fallen and the dead will be upon us. The people of King’s Landing will rebel if they are starved. They’ve already wreaked havoc on the city walls, and I’ve received word that a man was stoned to death last night over a bowl of brown.”

“As you said,” she quipped, never looking at him. “The dead are on the move. What is the point of pulling for rations now when they will die by their hands of the Mad King’s daughter?”

“You Grace, please...we are far overrun with refugees, and more are pouring in by the day from those who seek shelter and food now that winter has arrived. I fear the rage will soon direct toward you and your safety. You’ve not fully recovered yet...” A stammer erupted from Qyburn’s throat when she hardly flinched, and Cersei finally focused her attention to him. One look, and he gave a small bow to silence himself. 

“Come, Ser Gregor. We have some work to do.” Pursing her lips together, The Mountain followed at her heels, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sheathed sword. Qyburn watched her go, his face contorted into something that resembled a deep unease.

Flanked by three gold cloaks and The Mountain, they made the trek to Visenya’s Hill. A stray commoner here and there would shout at her, begging mercilessly to fill their bowls and feed their families, to which she would pretend not to hear them. Some of them grew more daring, lunging toward her despite her guard, only to be manhandled by a gold cloak. Her destination was Eel Alley where Harry Strickland stood amongst some of his men of the Golden Company.

Harry bowed dutifully as did the other sellswords. “You Grace. We’ve secured most of the alleys and streets as requested, for now. I’m afraid the common people are becoming more insatiable by the minute.”

“Good. _How_ have they been secured? A few rabid rats were clawing at me on my way here.” A tight, smug smirk pulled at Cersei’s lips.

Harry frowned, his head slightly cocking to one side. “We were able to escort them back to their respectful homes, Your Grace. It was not an easy task, and many of my men were injured in the process, but when children are dying at their mother’s withering breast…”

“That is not good enough.” Cersei’s voice came sharp, making Harry blink at its ferocity.

“Your Grace?” His mouth hung slightly open, eyes scanning her face tentatively.

“I have not bought your army to make peace with the common folk. A better message needs to be made; simply shoving them off behind the comforts of their walls will not put an end to the uprising.” She involuntarily shivered at the freezing air; a climate she was most unaccustomed to.

Harry grimaced, briefly looking over the men with him before returning his attention to her. “That is nearly the entire city. There is a famine on the rise, and people are beginning to perish. With winter here, they will not last long. With respect, Your Grace, my army also did not agree to a contract equating to that of a city watch.”

Cersei’s face slowly contorted into a scowl, but before she could retort, she was quickly surrounded by her queensguard as a hoard of commoners could be heard nearby shouting in their direction. Harry turned, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the other guards at his sides halfway drew their longswords. The people were of a horrific state; hair tattered and unwashed, stained clothing clinging to what little flesh remained on bone, a few small children dragging their feet along the uneven, stone pavement below.

The need in their sunken eyes was indisputable. Harry and his guards took a few steps forward and blocked the narrow path in a straight line as his men stood to attention. Harry never drew his sword, but rather looked over his shoulder at Cersei, whose expression still remained unbothered.

“Please, Your Grace!” A youthful woman who could not have been older than eight and ten pushed her way through the crowd. When she came closer into view, Cersei craned her head slightly through the guards before her. Her eyes quickly fell to the swelling of the woman’s belly, clearly far into her pregnancy. Her dark, stringy hair lay listlessly along her small shoulders, her face gaunt even amongst the observation of acquaintances. Her honeyed brown eyes were drowning with sorrow and despair, shadowed by the trenches of skin sinking into her face. Children younger than Tommen clung to the legs of their parents, worse for wear.

“What is your name, child?” Cersei asked with a false tone of interest.

“Nora, Your Grace.” Her voice was small and timid under the queen’s gaze. A nod from Cersei urged her to continue. “We have no food. Our bellies grow tender and our skin colder. Every day we hear the cries of our neighbors until soon they can be heard no more.”

Cersei briefly considered Nora and the ragged common folk behind her, taking a few steps closer, queensguard surrounding her with each movement. “The Targaryen girl and her army of savages and her dragons will eventually make their way into the city. When they do, the Ironborn and the Lannister army will see to it that they are dealt with properly, and then we may begin the food shipments. Until then, I’m afraid we must wait it out. No food would survive such a war.”

Nora blinked, and a thunderous protest erupted from those behind her. The Golden Company stepped forward and ushered them back a few more feet, attempting to calm them as they tried to press themselves closer to her. Unamused, Cersei turned to leave, but a couple of paces in she was battered in the back of her head with a stone that knocked her forward onto her hands with a pained grunt. Her queensguard had her on her feet before long, and The Mountain’s sword was already drawn. The chants from the common folk echoed deafeningly down the narrow path and against the masonry up into the cold, misty air. When her stone-skinned hand groped the back of her head, warm blood painted it red and began to dribble down along her neck. She hadn’t felt any pain right away, but the rage that began to smolder within her was beginning to erupt into a seethe through her teeth.

“ _Usurper!_ ” They shouted, and when Cersei turned to face them, they were struggling against the Golden Company guards now.

“Your Grace,” one of her guards called beside her. “We need to get you back to the Red Keep, it’s too dang-”

“Not yet,” her breath came ragged, her teeth mashing together in a blinding anger. Instead, she approached the smallfolk closer, still leaving a space safely between them. “Lord Strickland, I order you to execute each one of these disgraceful bastards by whatever means possible. Chop off their heads, stone them to death, hang them, it makes no matter to me.”

“ _Usurper! Pretender!_ ”

Harry spun on his heel, one hand still outstretched to keep the crowd a safe distance from the queen, his eyes widening and darting between each guard amongst him as if he had misunderstood. “Your Grace? That is not-”

“ _I want them gone!_ ” Cersei’s deranged scream cut through the voices and her mirroring voice lingered in the icy air. The crowd slowed when her words fell upon their ears, but only gained strength as they heaved themselves forward, breaking through the Golden Company’s line. The Mountain lunged in one easy movement as a man ran straight into Cersei’s path, but was cut down the middle and stained the ground just before her feet with his bodily remnants.

Cersei nearly gagged, throwing herself backwards at the impact as one of her guards steadied her. Fresh blood seeped through her gown from the split man. The Golden Company reset and created a sturdy line across the path, some of them requiring more forceful maneuvers, while Cersei’s queensguard ushered her hastily back to the Red Keep.

\---

While Qyburn tended to Cersei’s head wound, she gazed blankly at the fireplace growing before her. She winced when he weaved thread through her skin; it had been worse than she had thought, but the adrenaline that rushed through her in the moment numbed any pain until she returned to safety.

“Your Grace, I would advise remaining in the Red Keep while the famine continues. It will only worsen, and your safety is of utmost importance,” Qyburn said in a slight mutter as he concentrated on the work before him.

It was still a moment before she spoke again. “They do not frighten me. They are weak; weaker than before they began to starve. With any luck they will begin to die out sooner than later.”

Qyburn’s hand paused until he remembered himself. “It is our duty to protect the small folk...we still have some food storage in the kitchens, Your Grace. Would it not be wise to disperse small portions until we are able to mend relations with the other regions? It would not be enough to satisfy everyone; the numbers grow by the day, but even the gesture...”

An unexpected sputter came from Cersei’s mouth; a half-hearted laugh which perished as soon as it began. “You presume too much when you suggest we are going to survive this war, my lord Hand. Whoever sits on the throne in the end will be ruling a graveyard.”

Qyburn tied up the last thread before cleaning his hands in the basin, taking the time to think. When he returned to Cersei, he knelt to his knees and cupped his hands around hers. “I understand you’re still angry and hurt, but it was not the small folk who killed your baby. They do not deserve to suffer; they need to see you fit as their queen.”

Cersei tore her hands away and stood unsteadily to her feet, catching herself on the back of the chair as her vision caught up to her. The blow to her head had taken much out of her. “They all deserve to suffer just as I have. Everything... _everything_ has been taken from me! Do you understand? I have _nothing left_!” Her voice reached a pitch she almost didn’t recognize herself, and Qyburn returned to his feet. Cersei began to tremble, and she grew aggravated.

“Your Grace, please-”

“Leave me,” she spat in a hushed tone, the Mountain shifting from the shadows to usher Qyburn out of the room. Qyburn offered a small, unseen bow before following her orders.

\---

As was common now, Cersei couldn’t find it within her to sleep through the night. Nightmares frequented her whenever she closed her eyes and began to drift, intruding her dreams of her baby in her arms. The child was lost. Dead. And she was alone. More lonely than she had ever been in the entirety of her life.

The horrific memory of the morning she woke in a pool of blood in her bed, seeped through her sleep gown, and the insufferable pain that followed. Her blood-curdling cries as she was then forced to birth the child that reverberated through her bed chambers back to her, how light he felt in her arms when she cradled him. She had memorized every feature on his tiny face; four months too early, but she found he resembled Jaime even then. After she made what peace she could - hours, it seemed - Qyburn took his minuscule body to be burned and his ashes returned to her. A golden pendant in the shape of a lion’s head was cast, and the baby’s ashes poured into it as it was then hung loosely with a golden chain around Cersei’s neck.

“ _Lann_ ,” she had spoken to anyone who was listening, lying still as water in her bed while she recovered except to stroke the pendant. Qyburn and Ser Gregor were the only company she kept anymore. “ _That is what I will name him. Named after the first ancestor of our house, and will be the last_.” 

“ _Not necessarily the last, Your Grace. I will not insult you by suggesting we have the greater advantage, but it would be quite defeatist to surrender prematurely._ ”

At present time, Cersei’s mind had become so diluted and overcome with defeat but yet remained fruitlessly optimistic they would win in the end. The other armies may have the numbers, but she convinced herself that they weren’t as loyal as Cersei’s armies were to her. The common folk not so much, but they wouldn’t be winning this war for her.

News of the loss of Lann only remained amongst herself, Qyburn and Gregor. Euron had still been under the impression she was pregnant with his child, and now that her body was ever so slightly beginning to shrink back to its original form, she continued to dress loosely and keep him at arm’s length to not give herself away. When he questioned her deflection, she cited a normal pregnancy stomach illness. He would be slower than she to understand what it all meant, so it worked in her favor for now, but he would catch on eventually. More than anything did he only want to share a bed with her and bear her a prince, and if he were to become knowledgeable of the truth, she would be one large army short.

At dawn, she broke her fast with Euron in silence. What food remained was preserved for herself and her immediate company, and the citizens of King’s Landing would not hear of it. If word got out, they would likely scale the Red Keep until they got their hands on the supply.

After a long while, without moving her eyes, Cersei spoke. “I have a request to ask of you.”

Euron had hardly taken his attention off of her as if anticipating the break of silence. “And what will I get in return?”

Finally, her eyes drew up to his. “The safety of our son.”

Instantly, his bacon dropped from his hands and his gaze bore into her. “How do you know it’s a boy?”

“Princes have been in my favor. Around this time I begin having dreams of them.” Instinctively, her hand pressed to her belly, feeling the threat of tears when it was only a shadow of the size it used to be. Instead, she let the tears come, playing emotion to her advantage.

Euron shifted in his seat to face her. “What is your request?”

\---

Once Cersei’s meeting with Euron successfully concluded, Harry Strickland met with her in the Great Hall of the Red Keep at her request. Perched amongst the Iron Throne which remained cruelly frigid when unseated, she pressed him on the outcome of the evening prior, when she demanded execution of the violent common folk. When he responded by saying that the crowd had grown tired and retired back to their homes, her eyes grew wild and full of malevolent wrath.

In one swift movement she jumped to her feet, Ser Gregor beside her and Qyburn at her other shoulder, and glided down the steps until she was so close to Harry she could almost feel his breath on her. He only moved back one step, apparently unsure if her proximity was intentional.

“You will do as I command, my Lord, or Ser Gregor will remove your head as well as your twenty thousand men. You were bought and paid for a service, _not_ for counseling amongst the poor!” At this point, she felt that her threats were less reaching than before, as if Harry expected it now. He was mostly unflinching and appeared bored but defiant and strong-willed.

“Our agreement reads that we will defend the Lannister queen from the looming threat, be it the Targaryen girl or this Army of the Dead; there was nothing written otherwise to suggest we would be killing innocent civilians because their queen chooses to starve them out. Shall I fetch my squire to reread your words back to you?”

Without any hesitation, Cersei’s hand whipped across Harry’s face quicker than anyone could blink. His head thrust painfully to its side, and he slowly craned it back to look at her. His normally pleasant eyes were piercing now; nothing less than contempt reflected in them. Ser Gregor and Qyburn were within arms length of Cersei, but she did not waver.

“You will hold your tongue when speaking to your queen, my Lord. And you will do as I command, or see that your heads line every inch of the city’s walls for all to bear witness to your treason.” Jaw closed tightly, Cersei’s chest was beginning to heave, the build-up of adrenaline causing a great unsettling in her stomach but fueling her ferocity.

Harry was a particularly tall man, and the way he looked down upon her smaller frame was meant to intimidate her, but she only faced him head-on.

“So be it, Your Grace.” Harry spun on his heel, his hand wiping the smear of blood left from the sharpness of Cersei’s ring from his cheek.

\---

Harry found the brunt of his men in a tavern nearby, and the four of them instantly stood to their feet upon his arrival, their eyes bulging at the reddened print on his face. They followed him silently into the alley until they walked for what felt like miles. The streets were bustling with common folk who had little ardor; some of them seemed to barely notice the armored men pushing through. They stopped before a pale wooden door before Harry barged inside, Nora and her children shrieking at the abrupt intrusion as the door splintered in one corner from the impact against the solid wall.

Nora’s arms spread protectively before her two sons who were peeking around her, wide-eyed and brimming with tears. Her bulging stomach was more apparent now. “Please, m’lord, if you wish to violate me, not in front of my boys!”

Frowning, Harry stopped, his men ducking in. The ceilings hung low and there was minimal light, and dust clung to the air so thick it layered their tongues. The sight before him made him queasy; she was barely a child herself, and normally he would expect an older figure to arrive at any moment, but there had been none. “I am not here to do any such thing.”

The softening of her body language was visible to him, but still she never left her sons. Harry tentatively closed some of the space between them and brought himself down onto one knee. Without breaking eye contact, her breathing shallow, his hand reached into a leather satchel hidden beneath his belt and he removed twenty Gold Dragons. He held them out in his open palm, and she began to quiver.

“Is this a trap? The queen ordered you to take my head; why would you need four guards to do a good deed?” Her voice trembled and she gently shushed her boys who began to question what was going to happen to them.

“For my own protection. Please…” Harry’s free hand quickly grabbed one of hers and forced the coins into it, her other dirt-ridden hand grasping to catch the falling ones. “Queen Cersei believes I am here to kill you and your friends from yesterday. Take these and find yourselves out of the city; I will have some of my men escort you safely. The other refugees are too tired to notice anything out of place, and too fearful to spread rumor amongst the queen’s ears. The Iron Fleet will be departing the city this evening, and it would be best to leave under nightfall.”

Nora’s dark eyes darted between each of his, more accepting, but still afraid. The boys behind her grew quiet. “And what if word gets around? Where will you go?”

A small breathy laugh escaped Harry. “We’re not long for the queen’s rule and will make what means are necessary. I will not slaughter innocents regardless of whose voice it is that is telling me to do so. Especially one with child.”

Nora let her tears fall freely down her cheeks now, the gasps of air erupting from her throat as she hung her head low to her chest. “Thank you, m’lord. If ever we all survive this war, I pray that we meet again so I can find a way to thank you properly.”

Harry stood to his feet, nodding to his men as they exited, but he stopped in the doorway and turned to face her. “My men will direct you South; the further you are from the northern threats, the longer you will survive. They will bring you to the nearest town for food and comfort, and then I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

With a grateful nod and relentless sobs of relief, Nora brought her boys close to her and cried between them as Harry closed the door securely behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait this time! My wheels have been spinning - I originally wasn't going to do any King's Landing POV (or at least not until later, if any) but I wanted to add this little piece in there. I felt it gave the story more depth and would serve better to get an understanding of the goings-on in King's Landing rather than finding out when everyone comes together eventually. It took me longer to get into Cersei's head (and Harry's) so I had to really sit on this chapter to make it feel organic.
> 
> I hope it tugged at your heart strings one way or the other. Also, the Cersei/Euron plan is a cliffhanger on purpose; more to come with that though! Thank you again for sticking around! <3


	9. Part IX - Disavow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany receives bad news and makes a new friend.

Dany had woken slightly achy from her evening with Jon the previous night. When she sat up slowly, still groggy in her bed, she closed her eyes and ran her hand along her neck where Jon had tenderly nipped at it. Never had she a lover who treated her with such compassion and worship. Not just as a queen, but as an equal. He was a proper lover, as well - despite comments made by Tyrion and Tormund, he proved they were far from accurate. The thought brought a lazy smile to her face, before forcing herself to break free of her reverie.

It was still early yet, so she took her time, brushing out her hair and slipping into her clothes for the day. To her surprise with the hour, Missandei quietly walked in and drifted over to where Dany stood. When Dany turned to acknowledge her, a shy smile erupting on her face, Missandei only returned a very small one before then averting her eyes.

“What is it?” Dany inquired, the small moment of her reverie broken before long. 

Missandei spoke smally, kneading her hands before her. “Lord Tyrion wishes to speak with you.”

“Of course,” she said a bit anxiously, peering around the corner as Missandei went to fetch Tyrion just outside the door. When it closed behind him, her stomach sank when he gave her the familiar look that usually meant something was awry. He watched her from beneath his brow, his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth.

“I feel like I’ve seen this look more times than necessary.” Her voice was almost disdainful, but the fear of what was the come cut deeper.

“You may want to sit for this one, Your Grace.” Tyrion gestured his hand outwardly, Missandei working her way to behind where Dany then sat to begin working at her hair.

“I see no point in word play, so...overnight, some of the great lords of the noble northern houses gathered and decided it unwise to bend the knee to your cause. They decreed that they would never fight for any other house than Stark. Evidently, their heads were swimming with mead the night Jon honored you as rightful queen, and the realization was slower to catch up to them despite the positive reception you received.” Tyrion did his best to soften the blow, Dany knew, but it still didn’t drench the sickening feeling churning in her belly. The heat of anger that followed flushed her blood and pricked at her skin, forming a clammy layer.

Dany’s eyes fluttered shut at his words, concentrating on evening her breathing. “What is the point, then? If we lost enough men, the odds are enormously against us again and the north will be swarmed by the Night King’s army, or Cersei’s if she manages to survive.”

“Yes, they appear to believe that that particular reality is a more fitting end than pledging themselves to a Targaryen,” Tyrion added when she looked up at him mournfully. “I know. It isn’t logical, and I warned you the northerners were thick-skinned. Rather thick-headed, as well. I will do my best to find a way to make them come around. I don’t know what power I have; I’m a Lannister and they all hate me for that alone. They can’t leave this island without their own ships, anyway, and they certainly aren’t taking yours.”

Sighing heavily, Dany could feel herself beginning to tremble. Missandei continued to work at her hair, a comforting hand coming to rest at her queen’s shoulder. “I don’t understand. What deed is greater than saving one’s life? I don’t feel there is more that I could do to persuade them, and I also don’t feel it should be necessary to search for one.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Tyrion rested his arms behind his back.

“How many men have we lost?” Dany’s voice was small but stern, her lips pressing tightly together. This question was becoming a regular pattern it seemed.

“Nearly half of those who survived Winterfell, which will not include northern civilians and refugees who will likely follow their lead once word gets around. They are too meek to do otherwise.”

Dany stared blankly in disbelief at him, slowly shaking her head at the realization that everything they had built was quickly falling apart. “I could make them my prisoners here, if I wish. Perhaps that would be enough to persuade them.”

Tyrion cocked his head and gave her that familiar look that she crossed the line. “You very well could, as queen, but as your Hand I would strongly advise against it. It would alienate every man we have remaining and we need every body that we can.”

“At this point I would rather have them removed from my homeland. Is that possible? I would not feel safe with so many here who despise me.” Dany’s voice returned to its steely rigidity, lower and more authoritative.

Now Tyrion recognized that there was no place for playfulness. Missandei tied the end of Dany’s braid with a silk band and perched herself in a chair beside them. “Whatever you desire they must abide by; they may not accept you as queen, but this is your home.”

She sighed, shaking her head and bringing her eyes down to her hands in her lap. The northerners were an impossible feat, it seemed. How Jon was most unlike them she wasn’t sure - even with Targaryen blood, he was raised by the northern mannerisms, and she thanked whichever gods existed that he was most unlike these kind. “I will wait for Jon to hear what he has to say about it.”

Tyrion’s eyebrows found their way upward, and his intermittent silence caught Dany’s attention. “I...did not expect you held his opinion so highly. Not that I’m complaining - in fact, I admire it and you for considering it. He would have more influence on them than I, anyway. It’s the right thing to do, emotions aside...for alliance purposes.”

Dany gave him the all too familiar look that hushed him as he entered dangerous territory. But he wasn’t finished just yet, “On that note...and I believe I’m safe to say this in front of Missandei,” he gently smiled at her to which Missandei returned it. 

Tyrion kept his voice barely above a murmur. “I’ve...become quite aware of yours and Jon’s...encounter...soiree...what have you. Just to clear the air.”

Dany became flushed and Missandei tried her hardest not to react at all, but her lips twitched even still. When she hung her head and looked up at Dany beneath her lashes, they both broke into a fit of uncontrollable giggles like little girls. Tyrion’s fingers pinched the bridge of his nose and he closed his eyes, but was soon unable to resist the hilarity and joined in himself. In that moment all facades were forgotten and they felt like children who had only just learned what sex was. After they cooled down, Tyrion reiterated the severity of what Dany and Jon’s secret meetings could mean, and to take such a risk would forfeit more of the northern alliance. She noted that she understood, and with that, they went about their ways.

\---

As Jon had not yet made his appearance for the day, Dany decided to go for a silent walk before the dull grey of the morning light would rouse the rest of the island’s inhabitants. Her thougts were always a thousand times more deafening when she was alone in silence. When she did find herself in the great hall, she hadn’t been expecting to find Arya sitting alone, a bowl rested before her and Dany observed that she had just broken her fast for the day.

As Dany approached closer, Arya drew her attention toward her and an easy smile tugged the corner of her lips. Dany returned the gesture and came to sit opposite of her. Up close, Arya resembled Jon more than she had realized before. Though they did not share a mother or father, it was evident that Stark features were undeniably resilient.

“You Grace,” Arya bowed her head awkwardly where she sat, nearly forgetting her etiquette of the newly-appointed queen.

“Lady Arya,” Dany responded kindly. “Though I understand you prefer not to be referred to as such.”

Arya pressed her lips together slightly. “I’ve never really fancied a title. I’ve never really been a lady.”

Hands clasped in her lap, Dany studied her face; she discovered over time that Arya’s demeanor was calm but calculating, but she wasn’t unfriendly. “I understand. I never much wanted what all I came to have, myself. Until my dragons hatched, and my brother died, I had no purpose other than to be married off to a foreign stranger in exchange for an army. It was my brother who intended to be king.”

Arya’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “I suppose it all worked out; now it’s your army and you will be queen.”

A small smile crossed Dany’s face and she averted her eyes a little shyly. “And now I have your brother’s, or at least some of them. I’ve just learned that about half have changed their minds about me.”

It was Arya’s turn to look away now, finding interest in the remnants of her bowl. “I’d heard mutterings, but wasn’t sure if it was true. If it makes you feel any better, most of the noble houses refused to fight for Jon against the Boltons. They were able to acquire the minor houses, but were still far outnumbered. Jon won in the end with the help of the Vale when they nearly lost it all.”

Dany swallowed, idly thumbing her hands. “I don’t understand what more I could do to persuade them. It’s their fight as well, and by refusing they are not just defying me as their queen, but their former king and all of their people who depend on their strength.”

There was some distant stirring, indicating that more people had awoken. Arya’s eyes found Dany’s again. “I mean no offense when I say this; truly, I don’t. But the north has grown tired of being under the crown’s shadow and we don’t fair well in the south. There probably is some struggle to accept a Targaryen as their queen; I won’t insult you by lying about that. But most of the distrust lies in the power the crown itself holds over the north. Our world is much different; the culture, the lifestyle, the people...we don’t belong as part of the south, and are freer as an independent region.”

Dany considered her a long moment, sighing inwardly but remaining stoic. “I feel it would be beneficial to keep an alliance together. Under my rule, the north would be treated just as fairly as any other kingdom. I do not know if I can say the same after my reign is over...but I can at least promise what I know now.”

“Can I ask you something?” Arya inquired, her head slightly cocked. Dany nodded. “What will become of Jon once you take the throne?”

Lips parting in thought, Dany brought her elbows up upon the table. It was something that weighed on her mind heavily, but had yet to discuss it with Jon. “I suppose he will have a choice to make. I know he does not wish to rule, and he has made it clear the north is his home. I expect he would prefer to remain warden of the north.”

Arya’s eyes studied Dany, and it made her feel as if she were reading her thoughts. “Don’t you love each other? You would be alright being separated? What about...what if you have children?”

Taken aback by Arya’s forwardness, she was not insulted, but rather admired that she spoke so freely. “It’s...a long story, but I can’t have children. And I do love him. Deeply. Which is why I can’t find it within myself to force his hand to stand by my side when I take my place.”

“I don’t think you know my brother well,” Arya quipped playfully. “If you asked him to cut off his hand because it would benefit you, he would do it without question. He may not want to be king; he’s tired, and he’s ready for a taste of freedom. But I believe he would be happy to support you at your side, even if only as a proper advisor. If the north does become an independent realm, he could remain King in the North and you would have a strong alliance with all northerners loyal to house Stark.”

Dany couldn’t help but smile, her eyes crinkling at the image of it. Arya’s face softened. “What would you do?” Dany asked politely.

Hesitating, Arya was at a brief loss for words. “What do you mean?”

“I intend to appoint Gendry as Lord of Storm’s End. Jon speaks highly of him, and I will need a strong alliance with the Baratheon stronghold. You seem to be rather affectionate with him...what if he were to ask your hand in marriage? You would be Lady of Storm’s End.” Dany spoke earnestly, and made Arya promise she would not tell anyone of her plan just yet.

“I would refuse,” Arya said with a confidence that made Dany a little sad. Sitting up straighter, Arya crossed her arms on the table. “That’s not me. And he knows it’s not something I would wish for myself.”

“But you love him…?” The hopeful tenderness in Dany’s voice was reflected among Arya’s face now.

“I do, but I have every intention of killing Cersei, and I don’t expect I’ll return alive. And even if I do, I have so much left that I’d like to do before I grow too old to do it.”

With a nod, Dany decided to drop the subject for now for fear of making it uncomfortable, and she enjoyed having a pleasant relationship with at least one of the Stark sisters. After a moment of pause, Arya shifted in her seat. “Have you any skill with a blade?”

“Not at all,” Dany said quietly, the faintest of laughs accompanying her words. Often she reminded herself that without her dragons, she was powerless to defend herself. The thought followed her for days whenever her dragons were injured or she was unseated from them.

“Would you allow me to teach you? It doesn’t have to be spectacular, but the odds are against us in King’s Landing when the dead arrive. Anything could happen, and you’ll die if you’re grounded. Plus, I’m expecting Jon later; he was wanting to get back to form.” Blinking at Arya’s brusqueness, Dany nodded in acceptance.

Dany’s heart fluttered in her chest: the prospect of even wielding a sword, that the young girl took any interest at all in her protection, and that she very well would be making a fool out of herself in front of her and Jon. After they each went to their respective chambers to fit into winter clothing, they met again at an open field. Dany had braided her hair away from her face down one shoulder. Arya had gone to the armory to fetch a basic sword, and although it was lighter in weight, Dany still found trouble wielding it without two hands. Jon had not yet arrived, and in the back of her mind, Dany privately wondered if he had been entirely worn out from their night together.

Arya left a couple of feet between them, her thin sword, Needle, in her left hand. “Everyone has their own preference with posture, but it’s always best to dig your furthest heel behind you into the ground. That way you always have support to fall back on, and you can maneuver yourself with your other leg.”

Nodding, Dany observed and mimicked Arya’s stance, adjusting a little to what felt proper.

“It’ll be different if you’re surrounded or are being attacked from more than two sides. In that case you’ll need to be agile; learn how to bend and twist without losing your footing. Now....” Arya laid Needle down and went up to Dany, adjusting her arms, and returned to her place. “I’m going to strike slowly, and I want you to parry.”

Dany nodded, her eyes fixated on Arya’s arm as it very slowly was brought in from the side and gingerly met Dany’s steel. Dany felt absolutely ridiculous, and she silently thanked whomever was listening that nobody else had been around to witness her lack of swordplay. Arya offered an encouraging gesture with her head, resetting to her original place before she suggested they try again but a little quicker.

Dany’s lips formed an ‘o’ shape, exhaling a puff of warm breath into the air. When Arya approached, her other arm behind her back, she slowly moved Needle in a diagonal motion downward. As Dany went to block it, the weight of her sword plummeted it’s dull pointed end flimsily to the ground, and she threw her head back in a hollar of laughter, Arya doubling over in a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

“That was pathetic,” Jon grinned teasingly, making his way down the hillside.

The women acknowledged his presence, but were still trying to catch up to their breathing, tears pouring down their faces.

“I doubt you’re any better,” Arya poked, straightening herself and pointing Needle in his general direction. Jon’s eyebrows raised. Arya grinned and turned her attention back to Dany, who was flushed. “Let’s try again.”

It took a few more tries yet; while Dany had some upper body strength from dragon riding, she wasn’t used to being put into motion like this. On the sixth attempt, she successfully deflected Arya at a relatively normal speed, and bounced up and down where she stood with excitement. Jon beamed at her, Arya observing her brother with fondness. It warmed Jon to no end that Dany’s queenly facade was abandoned in Arya’s company.

They reset their positions. “Right, we’ll work more on defense later. Now I want you to lunge at me and get a feel for how to swing a sword. It’ll take a few tries to get comfortable with what feels right for you,” Arya explained patiently.

Dany could feel Jon’s eyes on her, and it was making her all too warm beneath her thick coat. She had seen him use a sword, and it was effortless. Digging her heel into the frozen tundra below her, she slowly but surely took a few paces forward, sword hitched level with her shoulders, and made a somewhat acceptable strike. Arya deflected easily, as had been expected, but her nod of encouragement gave Dany more incentive to keep trying.

“That wasn’t bad! Try to steady your steel; your hands are still shaky,” Arya pointed, waiting as Dany went back to her spot. On her second go, she made progress, but had difficulty controlling the weapon once it reached a certain point in her swing.

When Dany started again, Jon had taken a spot behind her and each of his hands held her arms steady, his body pressing against her back. Her face grew hot then, and she suddenly felt extremely exposed, but appreciated that Arya didn’t react much if she thought anything of it.

When Arya nodded, Dany moved forward, and Jon assisted in her strike, this time meeting Arya’s blade with a soft clink. Dany smiled, and they reformed for a few more rounds. Dany was feeling clammy, her head spinning with Jon’s close proximity. Before one of the attempts, he had lowered his lips to her ear to mutter some sort of advice for timing of her strike, but she had hardly heard him and instead her skin became prickled by the warmth of his breath along her neck.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Arya challenged Jon, allowing Dany some time to rest as she sat off to the side to watch.

Jon unsheathed Longclaw, a brilliant and beautiful blade if Dany ever saw one upon closer inspection. A shrill pitch of noise as it freed from its scabbard cut through the air. It looked mighty heavy, and Dany no longer wondered how Jon’s arms became so muscular. The sight of him now, rugged, slightly wild with excitement, and tenacious, was revamping the heat within her. She forced to look away at anything to distract her, but soon the swordplay began.

They each lunged for each other in a quick display, Jon making the first move and Arya ducking under the blade while barely moving her lower body. He was slower than normal; still recovering from his rib injury. When Jon spun in a half circle, Arya’s arm whipped around to meet Longclaw with Needle, her body contorted in a twist. As Jon lifted her steel off of his with an echoing pitch, she rolled to the ground, turned back toward Jon, and gently poked his back with the end of her sword. Jon threw his head back in defeat, and Dany cheered the girl on from the side.

Jon’s eyes playfully glowered at her. Through Arya’s shallow breaths, she ordered them to restart again. This time, Dany would study the movements of their footwork and how they each danced along each other, knowing how to defend even when blindsided. They were far more advanced in the skill, but Dany would absorb what she could with the time that they had.

Arya engaged first, Jon parrying easily before looping their blades in a wide circle, coming back around over his head down unto her. Needle was unexpectedly resilient; when Longclaw crashed down onto it, Dany expected it to slice in half, but instead Arya blocked and sidestepped until she was at Jon’s side. He moved with her, a few paces between them, and Jon swiveled his sword in a circular motion, his eyes focused on Arya.

“Oh, fancy boy!” Arya teased, and Jon shook his head at her. When she leapt forward and somersaulted in his direction, for a moment he looked at her confused until the roll ended with her flinging her swordhand at him, to which he spread his legs just in time for the blade to cut the air between them. He leapt back, swinging low as Longclaw caught Needle, and took advantage of Arya’s vantage point. When he swiveled to the side, her right hand caught the ground to balance herself, and he was able to disarm her fully. She hung her head to recover her breathing again, and Jon wished he had dressed in fewer layers as the adrenaline washed over him. They went several more rounds before they both agreed to rest, and they were even in their winnings.

After some friendly chat, Arya excused herself, citing her reason as to pay a visit to Gendry.  
Jon found a spot next to Dany. “I’m happy to see Arya has taken a liking to you,” Jon gushed, sliding Longclaw back into its scabbard.

“Me as well. The feeling is mutual,” Dany cooed, already beginning to feel the soreness in her muscles from swordplay. Whenever a silence ensued, Dany felt the lingering issue of the loss of so many northerners fall heavily on her mind, but a fear grew with it. What if Jon did side with them? These were men he fought with, was willing to die for, dined with, who valued Jon far more than they probably ever would her, if ever at all. In the deepest depths of her heart she knew that he would not flee or commit treason, but the reminders of her history with those who opposed her or used her for personal gain still lingered. In present time she thought she ought to feel ashamed for even considering such thoughts as she sit there admiring the man before her.

His eye contact caught her off-guard as did his warm smile that could melt the frost around them, and her distracted response prompted him to question what was on her mind. Rather than tell him there, they found their way inside again, the harshness of winter winds cutting at their skin like fine blades. Even for Jon it was becoming almost impossible to breathe outdoors, his breath becoming hitched in its wake. Dany arranged a private meeting with Jon in the company of Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, and Jorah. Her most trusted advisors, though most of them were still quite wary of Varys’s intentions.

A squad of Unsullied were placed at the entrance of the Chamber of the Painted Table to avoid prying eyes and ears; Dany did not wish for their conversation to become whispered rumors until a decision was final.

Her eyes were only momentarily filled with sorrow, but she quickly put on her queenly facade and silently took in a deep breath. “Tyrion has learned that many of the northern men do not wish to accept me as their queen, and thus will not pursue King’s Landing with us.”

The crease between Jon’s brows was deep as he attempted to digest this, a flustered huff of air escaping him as he finally broke his gaze upon her to search the room for answers. There was collective movement from the others in the room, but no one spoke before Jon. His attention returned to her. “I don’t understand...they seemed so sure when I pledged the north to you.”

Dany gave a small shrug, growing flustered within herself when she felt the threat of tears sting her eyes. It was not the time nor place to weaken, she told herself, but with Jon her barriers could never be fully erect. Not anymore. “It appears there’s nothing more I can do to change their minds. I did not fly to Winterfell to gain their acceptance, much as Tyrion would have wanted that to be my primary objective. But I still feel cheated. And hurt. I should have known better.”

Her posture loosened in defeat. Jon’s instinct was to comfort her, but he quickly reminded himself of the company they held and his dark eyes never left hers. “We still have the numbers on our side. This doesn’t change the fact that you are our queen. But you’re right...the north is full of tenacious folk, but even I wouldn’t have expected a turn like this. Not after all you’ve given us.”

Dany held her head high but avoided eye contact, incapable of drowning in his determined gaze when she felt so weak. There was an option that lingered in the back of her mind, but one she was not quite ready to share just yet. When she did take a second to look over at him, her eyes began to dampen, and she had to draw her attention back to the table before her, even though it wasn’t in use for this council. To Dany it looked as if his heart would shatter; he was on the verge of saying something, but the sight of her being distraught haltered it. The second best ultimatum she played with in her head was one she was uncertain Jon would agree to - even if it was her order to give, she treasured his views and did not want to divide him or his loyalties.  
Everyone was still silent, and then she began. “We could sail them back to Winterfell. We would have enough time to get our ships there and back again before we sail for King’s Landing. We could put them to labor and begin to restore Winterfell.”

“They won’t have food supply,” Varys interjected, his eyes narrowing slightly at his queen’s reaction. Jon was silent in thought.

“If they wish for independence, it will be good practice to learn to fend for themselves,” said Tyrion. “They will have to pull for resources from the other northern regions and replenish supply together. I imagine most of the men know how to hunt, so they can start with that. What say you to that, Lord Snow?”

Jon briefly glanced between Dany and everyone else in the room, then his attention focused on Tyrion. “I think it’s fair, though I’m not the King in the North anymore. My sentiments are invalid.”

Varys shifted on his feet somewhere off to the side before stepping closer to Jon. “My Lord, the northerners could starve. We do not know how long this war will last, and the Night King and his army have already pillaged many of the northern lands. Food supply will be hard to come by, and especially harder if there were any other survivors than those who fled here from Winterfell.” He looked to Dany, a pleading twinkle in his eyes, though she found it difficult to know if it was genuine. “Please, Your Grace. If you think the northerners dislike you now, they will never accept you through a famine. They would have your head before your crown does. Lord Snow, if our queen so values your opinion, then it is of utmost importance that you find another way to reunite the northern lords.”

Dany could feel the heat bubble within her as Varys smoothly tried to override her, but softened when Jon responded. “The north is my true home, but I cannot accept dishonor from my own men. They are more strong-willed and resourceful than most, and would not see themselves starved to death. If I believed that to be the case, I would see myself back home along with them. But my place is here, to uphold my promise to my queen.”

Dany shook her head just slightly in amusement; Tyrion wasn’t wrong when he said Jon was noble to his core. Most men were self-serving and unwilling to follow through on their oaths, but Jon was willing to have his men who opposed her suffer the consequences of doing so. It made her heart ache for him more; he truly was the one man in this world she felt she could ensure her life with, that he would protect her at all costs. He was unwavering in his promise to her, and it created an overwhelming surge of respect and affection to flood within her for him. If no one else had been in the room with them, she would have kissed him just then. Stunned, Varys blinked but pursed his lips tightly together without another word.

“I might add one more suggestion,” said Tyrion. “Offer them a choice this evening, and be transparent with your intentions. Perhaps many of these men have gotten caught up in the gossip of the Mad King’s daughter’s false reputation. Those who still do not wish to stay can sail by dawn.”

Dany nodded in agreement, then looked between each face in the room until she found Jorah. “Ser Jorah, will you find Grey Worm and inform him of our decision? We will armor the ships with Unsullied soldiers to see that the northerners arrive safely without incident to White Harbor. I don’t expect any lingering threats preside to the north any longer, but I do not wish to risk it.”

Satisfied, all but Varys gave her a unanimous nod before departing the chamber.

\---

It was nearing evening and soon they would all convene to sup. Over the last week, a proper supper was unheard of with all of the clamor and battle planning.

Jon was on his way to find Gendry to check in on the status of the armor he had been laboriously working on, until Sansa had found him first and asked if they could talk while they had a small amount of time. They found a small library where they sat across one another.

Drawing in a breath, Sansa eyed him cautiously before speaking. “You said you wanted me to come to you if I had any concerns….” Jon nodded. “I just want to be sure that you know what you’re doing. Vowing yourself, us, the north, to Daenerys.”

Jon sighed internally, rubbing his eyes. “Sansa, we’ve been through this a thousand times and every time you tell me you trust me. So which is it?”

Her icy blue eyes studied him for what felt like an eternity before they fell to her hands, wringing them together slowly atop the table. It was unusual that she drew her attention elsewhere when speaking with him, and a small wave of worry washed over him. “I know about your parents. Your name...your house. Your rights.”

Silently, Jon exhaled, his mind racing. “Who told you?”

“Not you.” When her eyes found his face again, they were lined with tears. Jon’s face filled with sorrow. “I’m not angry. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t hurt. At the same time I understand. We’ve not been on the best terms...ever, really. Only in our lives apart did we find solace in each others company when we met again.”

Visibly upset, Jon watched her intently. “I did it to protect Daenerys. I can’t allow the northmen to repeal their oaths to her cause and try to put me in her place. I think you at least understand me enough by now to know I would never wish to rule over any kingdom, let alone seven. For now I remain Warden of the North and will continue to do so as long as the north will have me. Although it appears many of the men have already denounced Daenerys regardless.”

Nodding smally, it was evident that word had already spread of those who denied Dany. Sansa studied him a beat longer. “It was Varys. I honestly don’t know what he expected me to do with the information, but I pretended to know so he wouldn’t find the gratification he was looking for.”

Jon couldn’t help but release a slight chuckle. “How did you manage that?”

“I’ve learned to lie over the years,” she said earnestly, a small shrug gesturing from her shoulders. “I’ve been feeling like you’re abandoning your family. Now that you’ve learned your true name, your real parents, it seems you’ve forgotten your roots and your home and all of it. You didn’t even think to tell us that you would bend the knee to her.” Her voice was quiet now.

Oddly, Jon felt at ease, when otherwise he would have become enraged. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was confident in his decision or because he understood Sansa’s grief for it, or a bit of both. “Sansa, you need to understand some things. You don’t know Daenerys, nor have you taken the time to make the effort to do so. She doesn’t wish to seek you out because you avoid her at all costs. I’m not abandoning my family. You will always be my family; Arya, Bran, all of you. Winterfell will always be my home. But Daenerys is my family, too. She doesn’t have an Arya or a Bran or a Sansa to call her own. She needs me...and I need her. She is our queen now, and she will make this world a better, less shit one to live in.”

He reached out and held her hand, his eyes staring hard in her face, the wetness giving way and streaking down her cheeks. The vulnerability he saw in her was striking against her normally stoic and stubborn attributes, and it subtly reminded him of when they were children and the drop of her sewing needle would make her cry. “It doesn’t mean I need my Stark family any less; if anything I need them more than ever. I am a Stark and I am a Targaryen; I don’t need to choose.” The words surprised even him; all his life he denied the claim of being Stark by blood, despite Ned being his supposed father. Confirming it aloud and declaring pride in his Targaryen heritage sent a shiver down his spine.

When they got up from their seats, Sansa walked around and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, to which he returned the gesture. “I’m sorry for all of the horrible decisions I made behind your back. I promise it will never happen again; and if I do something stupid like it again, please know it’s not intentional.” They parted, and she wiped her cheeks out of frustration that she allowed herself to become so exposed. Her eyes found his again. “And I promise I will work to become acquainted with Daenerys.”

Jon smiled, looking down toward his feet, then back to her. “You both have more in common than you realize. Both strong, independent, and exhaustingly stubborn.”

This stirred a laugh from her, and they walked together out of the library to meet with everyone in the dining hall.

As everyone assembled in the great hall, Tyrion found himself in Dany’s company before long. After a small wait, Jon joined them, making the situation almost unbearable. Though they met amongst a group earlier in the day, the knowledge Tyrion had of their passionate night together as they convened as a trio amplified the awkwardness. Among the buzz of their guests, the silence between them was uncomfortably apparent to each of them. None of them could look each other in the eye, and when one went to speak, another would clear their throat to disguise the attempt as nothing more than a tickle in the throat.

Tyrion glanced between the two lovers, wine goblet in hand, and ushered them into a less populated corner. Jon and Dany both felt an awkwardness grow between them, knowing what was to come. Tyrion kept his voice barely above a murmur. Now that he had both of them together, he wanted to make his point clear. “If you wish to keep the details of your relationship private, you may want to consider somewhere a little more discreet.” His last words were a bit more of a hiss; Dany wavered uncomfortably as if the clothes she wore was creating an irritating friction, and Tyrion felt as if he had caught his own children red handed doing something naughty. “For obvious reasons, this stays between the four of us, much as I wish not to have any participation, but heed my warning unless you both plan to be wed anytime soon.”

With that, Tyrion gestured his goblet in their direction as a half-hearted toast before making his way through the thickness of the crowd.

Dany glanced over at Jon from the side of her eyes and the snicker that escaped her had been anything but intentional; Jon ran a hand down his face and shook his head. “If you told me five years ago that Tyrion Lannister would be giving me advice on bedroom behavior, I would have accused you of being a filthy liar,” he muttered quietly, to which Dany had to force herself to stifle her laugh before it could draw any more attention than they already were.

Over at the opposite end of the room to the side, Tyrion joined the company of Davos who was busying himself with a small cup of mead. “Ser Davos, I’ve quite missed your wit and wisdom.”

With a double-take, Davos considered him a moment. “I admit, I’ve felt rather witless since I nearly lost my damned leg. By a dead man, no less. Perhaps I should have begged for more milk of the poppy; that ought to draw some inspiration.”

Feeling the threat of a buzz coming on, Tyrion lightly guffawed. When he looked up at Davos, he followed his attention to where Jon and Dany were cozily supping beside each other, the closeness of their chairs not unnoticed to him. “What do you think of them?” Tyrion inquired, eyes narrowing slightly in thought as he nodded in their general direction.

Davos’s eyebrows lifted as he thought of what his response would be. More northerners poured into the room to fill their bellies. “The most honorable young man I’ve had the pleasure to serve, and the most selfless future ruler I’ve had the pleasure to live long enough to see. Together they are undeniably powerful.”

“You already know, don’t you?” Tyrion wondered aloud, a small smile tugging at Davos’s lips as Dany playfully swatted at Jon’s arm.

“What if the seven kingdoms, for once in their whole shit history, were ruled by a just woman and an honorable man?” Davos questioned, head cocking to one side

Impressed, Tyrion leaned against the wall behind him, fixing his eyes down into the thin layer of wine covering the bottom of his goblet. He was in need of a refill. “A pleasant idea, indeed. But Jon has always been a reluctant leader. What a story it would be; bastard of Winterfell to King consort, or however they would work it out. Songs would be sung in his name, and tales would be passed down to children for an age.”

“True, but he was only reluctant before Daenerys Targaryen. Look at all she has accomplished; much of it can be found on this island alone. Her legacy has been spoken about for years; I know much of it paints her in a dark light, but undoubtedly she has made a name for herself. The way her people look up at her is just as the north looks at Jon.”

Tyrion smiled. “I’m happy to hear you’ve come to think so highly of our queen, not that I suspected otherwise. But coming from a man with honor of your magnitude, Ser Davos, is quite a treat for my ears.”

\---

After some time had passed and bellies were full, Dany had called all to join the great hall, the northern small folk and noble lords and all. It didn’t go unnoticed that those who opposed her rule had still taken to the meat and mead she provided. Dany had stood purposefully before all of them, offering them the choice that she had decided upon earlier with her advisors, but to no avail. All who had denounced her agreed to return to Winterfell. She wished them good fortune and health, and Tyrion smiled to himself when she still extended the invitation to bend the knee once the war was won. There had been much shouting and complaints when they learned that Jon would not be joining them, but were silenced quickly by him when he reminded them that he would hold true to his oath as he had when he was named King in the North.

Further, Dany would send a small supply of food they could part with for their journey home. It wasn’t much, but would be enough to get them through the first few nights after they made landfall. Rations were becoming condensed as winter grew ruthless, and at the very least it would become easier to manage with less mouths to feed. Varys sat quietly, looking up at Dany under his eyebrows with a placid expression. Arya studied him suspiciously out of his view, brows furrowing only slightly to indicate that she didn’t care for such a look of disdain.

Afterwards, they dined and drank late into the night, ironic to many as sleep had become a habit long forgotten since preparing for war. When Jon and Dany were without company, Arya came to sit beside them, her voice audible enough to be heard over the hum of the room, but low enough to not be overheard by anyone else. “I don’t like the way Varys was looking at you two earlier. Be wary of that one.”

“I’ve been suspicious of him from the start, but I suppose I am of most people unfamiliar to me,” Dany murmured.

“This is different. He always looks like he’s plotting. They don’t call him the Spider for nothing,” said Arya.

“There’s too many of us and only one of him. Nothing will happen that won’t go unseen,” said Jon, but neither Arya nor Dany looked convinced.

“Just be careful. Make it a habit to double check your chambers at night.” With a friendly smile, Arya left them to be and Dany looked over at Jon, a small chill coursing through her at Arya’s parting words.

Jon gave her a warm smile. “I won’t let anything happen. I promise.”

Instinctively, Dany went to hold his hand, but smoothly brought it around to lay beneath the table in her lap. “I know,” she whispered. Jon’s eyes darted to her lips and stayed there longer than intended until he forced himself to find something else to stare at. It was becoming far too late, and the bustle wasn’t dying down enough for them to escape together. When Jon noticed Dany beginning to slouch in her seat, he demanded that she go get some rest. At first she protested, but the overwhelming exhaustion of the day made her sound anything but persuasive.

Eventually, he bid her good night and after a few moments, slid off into his own bed chambers for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting - I'm a little slower now as I'm not only catching up to what I've written already, but the time allows me to piece everything together! I have all the major plots down in my head, and am always revising the threads to tie them together. Hope you enjoyed this one! <3


	10. Part X - A Pledge, A Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran sees more. Jon taps into his inner Targaryen. Dany and Jaime converse. Jon comforts Dany.

As the days passed, Dragonstone was alive and stirring since Daenerys had been pledged and promised as the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The northerners who had condemned her rightful place as heir had been sent on their way back to Winterfell a few mornings ago. Bran was still assigned the task of following the Night King’s movements; he had been unusually more distant as of late, but it was accepted as him mastering his abilities. The Army of the Dead were still leagues away from King’s Landing yet, taking their time and claiming as many foot soldiers as they could. Bran was still yet unable to warg into Viserion, but he was in dire need to achieve this effort, especially now that their numbers were dwindling. Caution had to be taken so as not to draw the Night King’s attention to him, so he could only pursue him every so often.

Additionally, Bran and Sam were often convening in the library together, poring over the dust-ridden books that had been untouched for many moons at Dragonstone. Sam helped Bran fill the gaps, and Bran was working on threading histories together. Namely, that of the Night King. Thus far, only broken images plagued his mind, as once he ventured one path it multiplied into hundreds more and sometimes he would shut down. Constant flashes of the Children of the Forest, the cave of the Haunted Forest, a raven that was engulfed in a raging flame of fire, and a child with a shadowed face. These were the images he held onto as best he could, but were sometimes lost within the web of intertwining and tangled threads that transported him away. These memories were not yet disclosed with anyone else besides the two friends, not wishing to become bombarded by questioning which would open up endless more interpretations that would only distract Bran from his purpose.

During a meeting, Jaime had brought to their attention that Cersei was with child, to which Tyrion confirmed after some of the reactions of disbelief erupted from some that were present in the room. Sansa was the first to refute this claim, citing that it was within Cersei’s nature to bait them with such a lie, though Tyrion assured her his sister did not lie this time around. It was mentioned that if there was any shred of hope left to acquire Cersei’s armies if even until the dead were abolished, the life of her child might persuade her. Otherwise, Cersei had nothing left to care for, the only other person left being Jaime who abandoned her for the northern cause. Euron was merely a pawn in her game, Jaime had expressed, and that she would dismiss him or likely have him killed once he was deemed useless to her after doing her bidding.

When everyone had left the room, Dany had requested to speak with Bran in private. Jaime was the last to have any affinity for Cersei, and with the knowledge that she was pregnant, Dany feared Jaime would derail their plans to save the city and his sister. It was difficult for her to trust him.

Bran confirmed for her what all he had seen of Jaime’s past deeds; he was a changed man, a plight to mend his past and be accepted as a respectable figure. She felt a little more at ease with this information, but there was a peculiar level of uncertainty. And then Bran told her to utter some particular words to Jaime. When she inquired as to what it meant, Bran stated he could not say, but that if that would not persuade Jaime to remain loyal to Dany’s cause, nothing would, and if word got around about this specific crime be committed he would surely be put to death. With a nod of understanding and gratitude, she took that with her.

\---

It wasn’t yet dawn on a following morning when Jon was woken by the sound of his door locking shut. He was laying in his furs stomach-side when the bedside next to him sunk a bit and a smooth hand ran over his bare muscled back. He sighed a sleepy hum of pleasure, then turned his head to find Daenerys beside him. The sight made him smile warmly; he had been overcome by exhaustion from all of the commotion and wanted nothing less than to sleep the day away. The last they had been together alone was the night he bent the knee to her, and they had many unsuccessful attempts at finding more of that time with all of the activity late into the night.

Her hand stopped at an old wound that scarred over his skin at his shoulder. “I’ve never seen this one before,” she whispered.

Jon blinked slowly, unable to find energy to move. “A wildling girl pierced me with an arrow.”

Dany’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he smiled lazily. “May I ask why?”

“She was my first...lover. It wasn’t supposed to be that way, but it happened. She was one with the freefolk and I was a spy amongst them before I eventually brought them to safety. When I fled, she found me and shot me with three arrows.”

There was a silence and Dany brought herself all the way up onto the bed, in thought. “Did you love this girl?”

Sighing, he turned onto his back. “I did,” he confirmed quietly, then looked up at her with a tenderness in his eyes. “But not like I love you.”

The words seemed to come slowly to Dany; it took a long beat before she found his eyes and she looked more delicate than the night he pledged the north to her. A small, apprehensive smile appeared on Jon’s face, unsure of what she would think of it, until she lowered herself to lay beside him. Running her hand along his bearded face, she lifted herself just enough so that she could kiss him. The sensation felt as euphoric as the first time, and he deepened the kiss, only barely becoming desperate before she gently pushed him away.

“Avy jorrāelan, Ionos Sōnaro,” she whispered quietly in her mother tongue, and though he didn’t understand the language, by the look on her face, he accepted it as a reciprocation. His smile grew wide and he kissed her lightly now. They lay like this for a long while, as if they had won all the wars and the realm was saved many moons ago. They took comfort wrapped up in each others’ arms.

“I wanted to ask if you would come with me somewhere this morning,” she proposed mysteriously. Jon craned his head to look over at her face, to which she met his inquisitive gaze. Dany kept her voice low.

“I know you’ve been struggling with your identity...and I think I might have found a way to help you embrace it, even if just a little bit. It won’t make up for the secrecy and the fact that Rhaegar and Lyanna aren’t with us any longer...but I’d like to try.” Her proposal made him curious. The past weeks had been so filled with thoughts of how they would survive the long night, and any time he would free himself just for a brief time, the flood of the crisis that was his real identity overwhelmed him; pained him, even, to still think about the whole situation. Oft time he would lie in bed imagining what his life would have been like had he known much earlier on, but would quickly dismiss such concepts for fear he would drive himself mad with all the possibilities.

“I’ll do whatever my queen demands,” he said gruffly, and with a satisfied smile, she got up to prepare them for the endeavor ahead.

\---

Dany had sent out Unsullied scouts to be sure it was safe for them to wander the open sea without any threats. Once it was deemed so, Jon found his way in a large clearing on the cliffside, his breath was drawn away from the roaring winds and observed the snow-filled landscape that fell before him. The walls of Dragonstone were iced with freshly fallen powder, and the grass was barely peeking through. On the island, the winds were far more brutal, and they whipped and bit at Jon’s skin. Dany had instructed him to wait there for him, and he did as was requested, grateful that he had chosen to bulk up on his furs today.

After some time, the familiar shriek of two dragons were soon hovering above him. He shielded his eyes from the sharp winds to see them, harsher gusts beating him by the dragons’ massive wings.

Drogon came first, landing only a few feet away, Dany perched at his shoulders. The impact of his landing created a whirlwind of snow to rush up into the air and the earth below him to shudder. Rhaegal soon followed his brother, but settled behind Jon. He still was unsure what this was about, but was starting to come to realization when Dany looked down at him expectantly.

She made a gesture with her head for him to mount Rhaegal, Jon looking back at the green dragon whose golden red eyes stared back at him, nostrils flaring. The mere idea that dragons were living in his lifetime, and standing within arms length, never got old to him. He turned back to Dany. “I’m not so sure he wants me to.”

“They know you’re not a threat to their mother. It’s in your blood to be a rider, anyhow,” she urged, gesturing once more for him to go on.

Jon hesitated still, but when he turned to face the beast again, Rhaegal lowered his neck and body closer to the ground as Drogon did for Dany. The heat that radiated off of Rhaegal’s leathern skin could be felt several feet away, and when Jon slowly placed his hand on his neck, it was hot to the touch even through his gloves. It was a welcoming sensation against the brutal winds. He looked into Rhaegal’s face one more time before he braced his hands against the rigid, scaly skin and found a curve at the dragon’s shoulder. With a boost, he went to launch himself up, but Rhaegal insisted on helping him with the quiver of his body and he nearly flew completely over Rhaegal’s back to the other side with a grunt.

Dany was unable to contain herself and threw her head back in laughter, trying to suppress herself with her hand. Jon fixed himself properly onto the seat between Rhaegal’s shoulders, his hands clinging to the large ridges among his back. He looked over to Dany, shaking his head at her before Rhaegal suddenly ducked and leapt high into the air, causing Jon to lean his body forward to prevent himself from rolling backwards.

Grinning with delight, Dany and Drogon followed behind them, the island below soon becoming a distant formation in the water. Drogon came to the side of Rhaegal so Dany could get a better view of how Jon was doing, but was struck with admiration of the sight. Although Jon looked like he might vomit at a moments notice, it was both bewildering and thrilling for her to be a witness of the last of her family flying beside her. The last two Targaryens riding upon the last two dragons. Jon finally looked over at her and pushed himself up a little bit; he had been nearly flush with Rhaegal’s body out of fear he would fall off at any time. In his head he hoped that the fall to the water would be at least marginally less painful than if he hit land.

It took him some time to regain normal breathing, though the cold was stifling it even still. Dany steered Drogon to playfully dive in front of Rhaegal, knowing full well it would initiate the same reaction from Rhaegal. As Rhaegal lurched after his brother, the sudden drop caused Jon to lift off of the dragon’s back briefly and his stomach was in his throat. He grasped at larger spikes for a firmer grip, his cloak blowing violently in the wind behind him. He ducked his head down until Rhaegal curved and pivoted on his side, and Jon clenched his thighs as best he could.

When he found the courage to look up, he observed that they were flying level and nearly skimming the sea. With a sudden movement, Rhaegal sunk his head into the sea and thrust upward; the splash of water on Jon’s face made him gasp from its frigidness. Jon was unsure what Rhaegal was doing until he tossed a large fish into the air and roasted it with fire before letting it fall down his gullet. Jon stared in wonderment, a surge of heat from his fire breath had punctured through Jon’s leathers to warm him further.

Dany was a few paces below them. Jon angled his body and as if they were one figure, Rhaegal obeyed his movement and glided downward until he was beside Dany once more. He hadn’t realized that he was sitting more properly now, and even though the adrenaline still pumped through him, he felt more at ease. Once he relaxed, he began to absorb the fact that he, a former bastard of Winterfell, was riding a dragon. A creature thought extinct until Dany hatched them. Never in his lifetime would he had ever considered seeing them even from a distance, never mind what he was doing now. He finally released a long-held breath and studied Dany as she focused on the endless bay beyond them. Before too long they came upon a smaller piece of unoccupied land and the dragons took rest there. Dany and Jon dismounted as they flew off to hunt for the morning.

Jon’s legs felt sore from holding such a tight grip. Dany looked over to him expectantly, and he couldn’t hide his smile. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his torso and kissed him, to which he happily returned, bringing her in close.

When she parted, she kept her face close to his and he sighed contentedly. “I’m not so sure I can accept any other means of travel now that I’ve done that.”

Grinning, Dany turned her attention out toward the endless sea where she could only vaguely make out the dragons in the shroud of mist. “If Rhaegal has accepted you, which I believe he has, you would be his rider until your death.”

Frowning, Jon continued to gawk at her until her eyes returned to him to explain further. “A dragon knows no other rider so long as his is alive. It’s a special bond and it is why only Drogon allows me to mount him. You are his first, and likely his last.”

Jon scanned the open sea, finding the muted silhouettes of the beasts. The disbelief within him was palpable, and Dany had to nearly shake him out of it. “I wonder how Ghost would feel about that,” he said, the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

“I expect he will come to an understanding,” she teased while he brought his focus back onto her.

“Everyone will be wondering where we are by now,” he said, with a trace of playfulness in his voice.

Dany made a face. “Let them wonder,” she muttered, stepping up onto her toes to kiss him delicately. Jon happily obliged, promptly deepening the kiss with a hungry fever. Dany giggled and forced him away, to which he leaned in again, but she resisted, seemingly enjoying this game.

“That’s not fair,” he grumbled.

Dany was grinning cheekily, then straightened herself. “Come to my chambers tonight.”

He considered her a moment. There was nothing he wanted more, but the halls had been so populated throughout the night anymore it was impossible to not be stopped by someone. “What if I’m seen?”

She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

They allowed themselves to enjoy the serene silence that they hadn’t been able to escape for weeks now. After a while, the dragons found their way back to their riders after their meal. Jon watched Dany retreat for a moment before following as they returned to Dragonstone.

\---

Dany had been heading to her chambers to change out of her winter coat before a figure appeared to her left.

“Your Grace,” Jaime Lannister spoke a bit uncertainly, and she gave him her attention. “You wished to speak with me?”

Dany considered this a moment, nearly forgetting she had summoned to meet with him in the afternoon after the exhilaration of the dragon ride. Nodding, she dismissed all but two of her Queensguard and walked with Jaime to a private area.

“I feel that we are at odds with one another and we have barely become acquaintances...that we are not quite of similar mind, despite being on the same side,” he proposed once they found a table to sit at. A few empty chairs filled the space between them, and her queensguard was on standby against the wall. She kept her posture straight, never flinching. She had all but avoided most contact with Jaime, and during their gatherings, felt an unease with him being present.

She paused, looking directly at him. “Are we on the same side? I would expect that you would understand my position, Ser Jaime. Had I been notorious as a kingslayer to your father, how would you feel?”

The beginning of a smirk played on his face until he thought better of it, looking away briefly. “Has anyone ever told you how and why the death of your father came to be? That is, an unbiased source of information. Ser Barristan was once in your company before his untimely death; he served your father.”

Her eyebrow lifted slightly, feeling a challenge looming. “He did, and he was. He was the first one to tell me the truth of what my father truly was and how he came to be Mad King Aerys. I do not deny that my father’s actions were beyond revolting and cruel, but he was still my father. I assume you would feel the same had it been your family.”

Jaime hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly and a small, breathy laugh escaped him. “Mine was hardly a devoted father, but even in his prime he didn’t quite compare to your father’s malice.” He paused, uncertain if he was wavering closer to an understanding or the risk of being dismissed.

He continued when she didn’t speak. “When Cersei blew up the sept with wildfire, all I could see when I returned to King’s Landing was the Mad King all over again, her being crowned after killing thousands of innocents without so much as the blink of an eye. It was like she was being rewarded for her accomplishment. What’s worse…” his voice began to fail him. “Worse, for me...my son, Tommen. He took his own life then; he died alone. Six and ten, he was...how does a boy as pure and good as Tommen know such fear?”

Dany’s face had softened considerably, not expecting the turn in the conversation. Jaime was bordering on crumbling, but drew in a deep breath to reset himself.

“Soon after his death, I begged her to tell me about it, what had happened...and it was almost as if she didn’t hear me, and all she knew was the crown, the throne,” he continued. It occurred to her just then that he had never been allowed to grieve for his lost son; not even to Cersei.

His eyes found the table, then Dany again. “Part of me wondered if she had hoped for his death so she could sit on that damned throne, but if there is anything Cersei loved in this world, it has always been her children. I can still hear the Mad King’s laughter in my head as he would watch with a cruel amusement as innocent bodies burned. No one was safe from him. And now his voice has been replaced with someone else’s.”

A silence followed and Dany finally turned her attention elsewhere, then looked back at him. “Is this other person meant to be me? It seems that’s all I’m known for on this side of the sea, despite all of my other accomplishments; the one non-factual rumor that made its way to Westeros is the only one that stuck.”

“It’s not yours. It’s Cersei’s.”

Dany was unsure of what to make of this, but listened as he resumed. “Cersei will conceal herself in the Red Keep; she believes it’s her safeguard, and she wouldn’t dare risk the threat of wildfire igniting there. The sept and its immediate area were only a fraction of the wildfire supply, I had heard whispers that there may still be more lying beneath the structures that were untouched. Your father planted them there, and to my knowledge it has remained there and never removed. Cersei and her Hand shut me out of any conversation relating to that. If you propose to fly your dragons there, dragonfire will only ignite the remaining wildfire beneath the city and everyone will die. Everyone.”

“I am not going to burn the city to its roots,” Dany said strongly, frowning. “I’m going to liberate the people of King’s Landing from your tyrant sister.”

“And how do you suppose you’ll convince her? Walk up to her and ask politely? Do you truly understand who Cersei Lannister is? She was smiling mere hours after she killed thousands of innocent civilians. I don’t wish to see that happen twice in my lifetime, nor do I wish for anyone to have to choose between being burnt alive or making the choice that Tommen did. Let me negotiate with her,” Jaime offered, causing a narrowing in Dany’s eyes. He shifted. “It would be our last opportunity to unite for a mutual cause. She is pregnant with my child. Years ago word spread to Westeros that you were pregnant, yourself. Given no child in your company I can only assume it did not survive, correct?”

Dany felt a lingering illness in her stomach, attempting to remain stoic, though the tone of his voice assured her he meant no ill-intent at the comment. “That is correct.”

Jaime gave her a look as if that should be enough to convince her.

“How do I know I can trust you? You’re a Lannister; one of the most conniving families in the Seven Kingdoms.” Dany pressed her lips together.

“You trust Tyrion.” It was less a question and more a validation. “If you can’t trust me, seek his advice and he will tell you that I am a man of my word, unless a circumstance such as your father’s begs otherwise. I don’t wish to join Cersei’s aid; in fact, I expect she will have me murdered the moment I step foot in the city if not the Red Keep, assuming I make it that far. I will not betray your trust should you decide to honor my request. But I would ask it of you to allow me to try, one last time, to persuade her to come to her senses so that we may live to see the birth of our child.”

“I’m already aware Tyrion’s feelings for you as his brother. However, I spoke with another. Bran Stark.” She waited to see his reaction before continuing, and his crestfallen face confirmed her expectation. She stood to her feet, clasping her hands together and took a few slow steps toward him. “Cersei does not deserve to live; she cares not about anyone but herself and the power she possesses. I can tell you now that I would never rest easy knowing she still wandered the realm freely as I sit on the Iron Throne. I would think you would know better by now, as well. I will not trust her now that she had broken her agreement to send her army North; if she would not do so for Jon, she will not return the favor for me.”

Sighing and looking defeated, Jaime could only nod.

“Promise me one thing, Ser Jaime. Fight for me against your sister and the dead. I will allow you one chance to convince Cersei that her resistance is futile. If you are unsuccessful and she does not kill you first, you will see to it that she is dealt with. She will lose this war, whether by my hands or the dead’s, should they arrive after we reach the city.” She was a few paces away from him when she stopped. “The things we do for love.”

Jaime’s brows nearly knit together before he recomposed himself, swallowing hard. She studied him briefly. “I will not ask you to tell me what it means; but if you betray my trust, you will hold the same fate as your sister. One more thing, Ser Jaime. If you do as I ask and fight for me, and if we survive this great war, I will see to it that your moniker as Kingslayer is abolished. If anyone dare speak to you in that manner, directly or not, they will have me to answer to, as their queen.”

The range of emotion that displayed before her helped her feel confident that her point was clear. He looked stunned, unable to move from his seat, his eyes fixated elsewhere. “Do we have an agreement?”

Jaime stood; the movement caused the queensguard to move forward instantly, but Dany gently lifted her hand to stand down. He eyed the guards warily before he bowed his head.

“We have an agreement, Your Grace.”

\---

After most declared it a night, Jon had been in his chambers, waiting for the halls to clear so that he could seek out Daenerys as she had requested. He had a bath drawn; it had been far too long since he had a proper wash. There was a distant echo of voices somewhere in the halls as he sunk down into the warm water, resting his head against the back of the lip of the tub, his arms resting along the edges. His fireplace was roaring, casting a thickening heat amongst his chambers.

He closed his eyes, slowly releasing the pent up tension in his muscles. Before too long, there was a gentle knock at his door. His eyes shot open and he hastily stepped out of the tub, nearly slipping in the process, grabbing a blanket of sheep’s wool to cover himself around his waist. When he got to his door, he opened it only enough to find Dany on the other side. When he told her he wasn’t yet decent, afraid someone might see her, it only made her push insistently on the door. He huffed a breathy laugh and quickly brought her inside, latching the door behind him. She had been smart to dress in one of her normal day gowns to avoid questions should she be caught entering his room. The crimson hue of the wool gown softened her normally hardened features when she was in the company of most everyone else; the neckline sunk to just between her breasts, and only then did Jon realize she hadn’t been wearing any smallclothes beneath them, and it had loosened considerably since she stepped in.

“I thought we agreed that I was to come to your chambers tonight,” he said quietly, as she looked around to observe what she had interrupted.

Her eyes then landed on his face, amusement reflecting in them. “You took too long.”

Before Jon could say another word, she stepped closer to him and her hand found the edge of the wool blanket at his waist, slowly removing it and dropping it to the floor. He shuddered from the coldness against his wet skin, and she angled her chin to kiss him lightly. He brought her in close against him, relaxing in the warmth of her.

Without parting, Jon walked her back toward the bed, his hands cradling either side of her face until they positioned themselves atop the furs. Sitting in his lap, Jon cupped her face, her eyes smiling as he began caressing her jawline down to her neck. The old wounds from Winterfell were beginning to scar, but it was only visible with enough light. Gently, he thumbed them before she brought her hands to her shoulders and pulled the gown off of her, slipping out of it fully and tossing it over onto the floor.

Dany let her eyes roam his face, resting her hands at his shoulders. His calloused hands held her, and she watched him with heavy eyes. Without hesitation, he leaned forward and kissed her gingerly, but grew impatient and initiated more; he had longed for her for days, and another minute would likely kill him. Dany couldn’t resist grinning at his desperation.

He allowed his hands to travel the length of her from her shoulders, down her sides, grazing her breasts before sliding down her torso. A lingering sigh rushed between her lips. His hands came to rest on her rear, and she began to sway her hips along him. He exhaled against her mouth, then parted from her and kissed along her face, gently nudging her jaw with his nose to kiss along the supple skin of her neck. Dany’s eyes closed, her cheek nuzzled against his head.

He had been less than thrilled that so many of his men had abandoned her cause - their cause - and he knew that it bothered her more than she was allowing him to see. The worry she carried with her that they may no longer have the upper hand could be read on her face, but only when it was only in his company. He wanted nothing less than to make her forget all of that if even for one night, all of her troubles, and devote all of himself to her in every single way that was possible. He intended to replace all of her troubles with an evening of complete devotion from him.

Jon brought his head back up and adjusted himself. She studied his face, her hands running down from his shoulders to his lower abdomen, grasping onto his legs and teasingly curving them until she was caressing his inner thighs. He trembled, his body shivering, and he arched his head down and took her lip between his teeth. Her hands grazed his cock and he sucked in a breath, until she took him fully in hand. Head spinning wildly, he felt as though he would collapse as she stroked his length slow at first, following the lead of his reaction and only then increasing her speed. Their faces rested upon each other, Jon’s mouth eventually finding her shoulder and biting down on it affectionately. She stroked him against her flesh that was quickly becoming slick, and he purred a low moan, the sound vibrating against her skin as he did so.

Once he felt he would lose himself at any time, he gently removed her hand and lifted her slightly, gently prodding until he found her erect entrance. She gasped when he made his first thrust, her shoulders angling backward. Jon moved his mouth into hers to suppress a long groan. When he pushed himself further until their skin kissed, she released a whimper and he continued a long, slow rhythm, his hands firmly gripped at her hips to guide her with him.

He opened his eyes and absorbed her before him. Her plump, swollen lips that were his doing, how her breathing came in quick, shuddered pants, how her face softened when he looked at her, her face contorted now in a pleasant agony. He then kissed her tenderly, his tongue gliding along her upper lip as he then lay her down below him and brought both of her arms above her head and held them there. With his free arm, he brought her legs around his abdomen before he continued rapid strokes, drawing a muted moan from her throat.

Using him as leverage, she began to pull up her hips into him, and he broke away from her mouth to bury his face in her neck, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to focus on not peaking just yet. His teeth grazed her jaw as she continued, her hands grasping desperately at his arse and her fingers digging further into his skin.

“ _Dany_ ,” he pleaded, and she picked up her pace, feverish as their skin became damp and they began to quake in unison. She exhaled into his ear, biting her own lip to prevent from shouting when he lifted her hips from the bed. His body lowered until he was brushing along her most sensitive flesh with each heave, her gasps releasing in desperate want. One of her arms snaked under his to wrap around and grip firmly onto his shoulder, the other held securely against his cheek as she could feel the stinging in her eyes in her euphoria. He quickened his movements, heavily gasping against her open mouth, frantic and dire, wild and feral.

Wanting to make the night last as he didn’t know when they would have their next opportunity, he slowed into a tantalizing rhythm and Dany hummed an almost discouraged sound, and a small sideways smirk played at his lips. As Jon came back to his senses after feeling out of body by their lovemaking, he allowed himself a long time to wonder at her with each passive lunge, and wondered to himself if it was perverse to immerse himself in the bliss written all over her face. Her mouth was slightly parted, slacking more each time he pushed himself within her, her eyes sometimes squeezing shut when he would brush against her sensitive bud. The nipples of her breasts were taut and swayed freely with each thrust.

Dany opened her eyes after realizing the warmth of his body against hers had disappeared, smiling almost shyly when she took notice of his observations. His face contorted into pure awe of her, an overwhelming and heart wrenching feeling of love for her assaulting him with such vigor it made his head swirl. Her face hardened into something more serious, her hand reaching up to rub along his face until he took her full on the mouth. His brows furrowed, tongue plunging hastily into hers, wishing he could somehow be more within her, one with her.

Sighing against him, Dany bit down hard on his lip when the coarseness of his weathered fingers gently massaged her pearl, her body jolting and Jon reacting with her with a guttural groan. He could taste the metallic sweetness of blood in his mouth, but quickly washed it away as he trailed his lips along her jaw, never abandoning her skin while they kissed tenderly down the hollow of her neck. His head bobbed down further and he brought her hardened nipple into his mouth, cupping it and drawing it in along his tongue while her back arched into him and a muted plea fell from her lips.

How he had managed to keep himself together was beyond him, as his cock throbbed heavily within her. His tongue trailed along the curvature to the valley of her breast bone and treated her other breast with the same tenderness. Then his bearded chin tickled down the middle of her abdomen and he briefly glanced up at her pleasantly distressed face as he gingerly relieved his cock from her. She then met his gaze until his hands found her inner thighs and he parted them further.

“ _Jon_ , I…” her words never came, but a high pitched whimper replaced them as he dipped his head low and his tongue lapped at her wet flesh, the tickle of his warm breath stirring a shiver throughout her entire body. He enclosed his mouth around her bud and Dany found it near impossible both not to scream nor move. Her hips just barely began to buck until he gently held them down, the possessiveness with which he took her flaring a loud moan from her. Jon had to back away a moment, the sound driving him mad with lust, then returned to her and stroked his tongue into her.

She was sweet; it had been an age since he had last performed in this way, and he had forgotten how wickedly he enjoyed it. Her walls were pulsing, and her bones seemed to have turned into water, weak and disabled while his rugged hands went from massaging her inner thighs to tracing the creases where her legs met her groin. The longer he worked away at her, the more paralyzed she became, helpless against his touch and entangling one of her hands through her hair at the crown. Her free hand gripped the furs of the bed until she was white-knuckled as he ran his mouth along her, wondering somewhere distantly how he knew how to do what he was doing to her.

Dany brought her knees up when she mustered enough ambition to do so, and her chest was heaving deeply, but before she could release herself, Jon moved himself back up to her with ferocity, claiming her mouth forcefully as his cock easily slid back between her legs. This time, he was rapid with his strokes, panting in heavy bursts against her mouth and until they both finally came to their culmination. It felt like an age before their hearts stopped pounding through their chests.

Jon rested his forehead against hers, his skin clammy and loose pieces of curls framed his face. Dany searched for air to fill her winded lungs. He slowly disjointed himself from her before resting at her side, his arms lying lazy above his head. Dany rolled over to face him. Placing an arm onto his chest, she rested her cheek against it so that she could see him, her other hand slicking back his dampened hair. He shifted himself to be closer to her, then wrapped a protective arm around the small of her back, caressing her lush rear in the process.

It was a long time before either of them spoke. Jon stared at the intricately carved ceiling above them. “Did I ever tell you that I knew a Targaryen before I met you?” His voice was rugged from lack of use.

This caused Dany to sit up, her attention fully on his face. “Yourself?”

Jon chuckled, pinching her back in response which initiated her to jump and press into him. “No; Maester Aemon Targaryen. He was actually a prince, once. But he refused the crown and took his vows in the Night’s Watch.”

“How did he die?” She asked after a pause, hand running up and down the length of his arm.

Jon’s eyebrows lifted in wonderment. “Old age. I don’t think I can say I’ve known anyone to not die by someone else’s hand or a sword in their back. His death was a mercy in this world.”

Subconsciously at the mention of death, Dany traced over the old stab wounds along his torso. Only slightly did he flinch, but she noticed. “I had no idea.”

“Neither did most. He began his watch so early on in his life that most had forgotten he was a Targaryen. ” Jon said. “He mentioned you once, not to me, but to Sam. Word had come to him with news of your whereabouts, and he was concerned for your well-being since you were without family.”

Dany appeared empathetic, sitting up on both of her elbows.”I have it now, though. That’s all that matters.”

Turning his head to look at her, he combed his hand through her tresses while she watched him thoughtfully. She inched up so that her upper half was lying against his chest, arms coming to rest at either side of his head and hovered above him, her hair becoming a soft curtain over her shoulder.

“If I could die and be reborn again, I would ask whatever gods are listening to bring me to Essos. To protect you from everyone who ever hurt you.” He looked at her now, his eyes filled with nothing short of raw love.

A pleasant smile crossed her face and her brows lifted in gratitude at his sentiment. _This sweet northern boy_ , she thought. How transparent and romantic he was - something she could never have assumed of him early on, months ago. With him lying here, their bodies entwined and vibrant after making love...it all felt so natural. As if this were the fragment of her heart she never knew she longed for that had been absent her entire life. “I wouldn’t be where I am now had I not been hurt. I admit I could have lived with fewer betrayals.”

Reflexively, Jon wrapped his arms tightly around her. He sighed comfortably, unable to comprehend that he was here, she in his protection, in his bed chambers. Sometimes he would remember the stories she shared with him of her brother and the khals, the assassination attempts, of her tortures and rapes and an uncertainty of what her life would become if she even survived at all. Then, she only lived by the day, sometimes by the hour of the sun and moon, the fate of her life always uncertain and everything an imbalance. It caused him great grief to imagine the person in front of him in those situations and it generated a physical pain within him.

Subconsciously, his face twisted to reflect his thoughts and she leaned in to softly brush her lips against his, and he grasped her tighter as if the men in his thoughts were about to take her from him just then. Slowly, she broke away.

His dark eyes danced between each of hers, large and love-filled, admiring how the light of the fire in the room pierced its violet hues. “And yet you’ve been betrayed again, by my own people.” A stuttered deep breath erupted from him; it angered him to no end even still, and his familiar brooding expression returned. “You know I would never abandon you. For anything, ever. Not ever.”

Unexpectedly, Dany’s eyes filled with tears and when she blinked they melted into Jon’s chest below her. Her lips trembled and she nodded her silent response to him, finding it impossible now with the way he was looking at her, promising himself to her, and it became increasingly difficult to contain herself. Jon’s brows angled into that of compassion and pulled her down to rest against him. Slowly, she exhaled to even the sobs that were threatening to shake her, and Jon pulled the warm furs up to just below her shoulders, encasing them snuggly while his hand ran through her hair and down all along her back. Within seconds she calmed, her eyes studying the deep, old gash in the middle of his breast. Her hand came up to hover just above it, then ever so gingerly traced her thumb along its edges. He flinched as he had earlier, muttering a shy apology and that it was a reflex of the old memory. Words failed her; nothing she could say could relieve the trauma he endured. It was then that she truly understood how parallel they had been to one another; their journeys full of anguish, hate, betrayals, love, loss, and a dream. The same dream, to always make the right and just decisions, maintaining a balance to please those who put their trust in them, but being able to make the call of an impossible decision even if it isolated them.

The warmth they shared was casting a pleasant silence between them and sleep was imminent.  
“We should get some rest,” she whispered reluctantly. Jon delayed himself from getting up so that he could see her out, not wishing to be anywhere else as they often did when they found time to themselves. Her hand grabbed onto his arm to prevent him from doing so and lifted her head. “Let me stay with you tonight.”

He looked up at her. “We can’t risk that.” It pained him to always deny her the wish of sharing a bed through the night, but if the lords had found them together as they were, it would stir too much of a controversy and they would begin to question the real reason he had bent the knee to her.

She stared at him, almost challenging but playful just the same. An eyebrow lifted. With a small smile of defeat, he slid his hand around to her back to pull her to him and she nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Jon cradled her so close to him there had been no part of him that wasn’t touching her, and they fell into a dreamless sleep in each other's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ya go, a nice long Jonerys scene for all you perverts! Haha! Happy to post almost back-to-back chapters, and cheers to 10 chapters!!! I've no idea how long this will be, but I plan on writing until it ends naturally. Thank you all ❤  
> (P.S. I assigned actual titles to the chapters instead of just parts, so it's easier to identify your place in the story😊 )


	11. Part XI - The Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany reflect. Sansa comes to a realization. Tragedy strikes.

When Jon woke, his eyes protesting to accepting the light, the sight before him roused him out of his drowsiness. Dany was lying on her back, the furs had slipped to only cover her waist down. Her hands were rested upon her abdomen delicately, her full pink lips parted slightly, and her silver hair a bed of messy waves beneath her. Allowing his eyes to drink her in, he tried to convince himself that he was indeed conscious and this was no dream. He used to dream of this scenario, but kept that much to himself. Now it came to fruition, and he had to shift himself to put out the strain growing relentlessly between his legs. The faint, sweet smell of her natural scent lingered, mixed somewhere with Essosi oils he knew she loved.

It was most tempting to wake her, to plant kisses along all of her then, but instead he brought the blankets back up to her shoulders, leaning down to lay a feathery kiss to her nose before carefully sliding out of bed. The resilient cold reminded him that it was near impossible to be without the cover of clothing; winter was well and truly here, and it was as malicious as Ned Stark used to warn him it would be. It hadn’t yet reached its peak - the thick, heavy blankets of snow had yet to reach them, but gradually amplified its scope each day.

When he stepped over to the basin in the corner of the room, the water so cold it shocked his nerves, he used a sponge to wipe down his face and his hair once he loosened it. He didn’t often call for warm water unless he was going to bathe; usually, he would deal with the cold since it was what he knew best, but after spending some time in the baths here and with how harsh the weather was becoming, he found himself growing more fond of the warmth. While he retied his hair back, there was a muffled movement behind him.

Looking over his shoulder, he found Dany had rolled over to her side and was observing him for an unknown amount of time. A sleepy, brazen smile was stretched across her lips and widened into a grin when he came to the realization she had been gawking at him. Suddenly he became hyper aware of his nudeness, feeling only a little bashful in a clearer light. Amused with her cheekiness, he returned to the bed and leaned down on his hands, Dany turning onto her back, her eyes squinted and obviously satisfied with herself while she watched him hover above her.

“What are you smiling about?” He teased, lowering himself to kiss her before she could answer. Instead, she giggled against his mouth, and he straddled himself between her leg. Her arm reached down to possessively grab handfuls of his arse, and he broke away from her a moment, his eyes playfully narrowing at her.

“I was only admiring what’s always hidden beneath all that armor you wear,” she replied mischievously while Jon burrowed himself between her and the warm furs. Sometimes her skin held such a heat he would wonder, with a child-like imagination, if she were half dragon herself.

He bathed in her round eyes, subconsciously shaking his head in disbelief. She was prompted to inquire as to what he was thinking then. “How are you real? You’re impossibly beautiful,” his graveled voice said, leaning onto one elbow as his free hand smoothed over her cheek.

A small, humble laugh breathed through her mouth. “I could ask you the same,” she responded sweetly, and with one swift movement rolled him onto his back, pressing flush against him. “Do you remember when you first walked into the throne room here?”

Amused, Jon made a face as if she had just opened a floodgate. “Of course. I couldn’t breathe.”

She arched an eyebrow, fingers idly glossing over his muscled chest. “Because you had just seen my dragons?” There was a certain tone of jest in her voice and he snickered.

“No, because I didn’t expect to see what I saw on that throne,” he said.

“We loathed one another.”

“Speak for yourself,” he teased. “I thought we got on well enough.” He did his best to not laugh then; they had been anything but amiable for a time.

“Lady Melisandre and Lord Tyrion spoke highly of you, as did Ser Davos. They were both wrong...” her head tilted slightly to one side, lifting a hand to gingerly trace over the scar above his eyebrow. A small frown formed on him, but she continued. “You’re much more than even they claimed, and beyond anything I could have fathomed. I love you.”

Jon leaned upward and placed a tender kiss on her lips. They relished one another a small while longer before Dany suggested she return to her chambers to dress, but Jon hesitated.

“I have to tell you something.” Dany was sitting beside him now, and he propped himself against the headboard. His stomach twisted when the look of heartache fell upon her face; was she expecting the worst again?

“Varys told Sansa. About me, my parents...she said she threw him off his trail a bit by going along with it, but I don’t know who else he may have told by now.” He watched her closely; she was numb, but tried not to let it reflect.

“Who do you believe will spread word first? Varys, or your sister?” There was a trace of a challenge in her voice. He knew it wasn’t for him, but more of a bitterness toward her doubt toward one person she only half trusted, and the other who seemed to despise her based off of false anecdotes.

Jon reached down to hold her hand. “I don’t believe Sansa would have the heart to do it. Not now. Months ago I wouldn’t have trusted her with it; it’s why I didn’t tell her myself. But she’s earned herself a few scaldings by me for some poor choices she’s made on her behalf...and she seemed far less resentful when she told me.”

Studying him for a long beat, Dany’s heart was pulsing rapidly in her chest. Every day since the northerners had rejected her claim, she knew what needed to be done, the right decision, she was usually good at making those calls...but this particular one frightened her to death, a lingering fear that rested perhaps irrationally on her mind. But she stored it away. “And what will we do should she decide to use the information to her advantage?”

“We? You’re our queen. What would you do with Lord Varys?”

A slow, shallow breath escaped her, unable to look at him now. “When he came to Dragonstone, I warned him that if he ever betrayed me, I would set Drogon upon him. But this is a man who supported to have me murdered as a child; regardless of whose orders he was under, king or not, he did his duty without question. I don’t believe Sansa is quite so heinous as that, at least. But she would not suffer such a fate as burning.”

Jon’s thumb lightly caressed over her hand. His voice remained gentle, and it made her heart yearn for him. He wasn’t trying to catch her in a lie, but was only wishing to hear her out. “I never expected that she would. You’ve taken the word of strangers too much to heart.” Dany turned her attention back to him. “That dragon fire is somehow more repulsive than a sword or whatever is the weapon of choice. I know that you wouldn’t burn Sansa alive, but Varys agreed to your terms, did he not? Yet he stayed by your side, and now he is on the edge of breaching said terms. I hanged a child younger than Bran because he committed mutiny and murdered me as Lord Commander. He plunged a dagger straight into my heart after six of my own men, men sworn to me, did the same before him. I watched the light go out of his eyes. My father - Ned - beheaded a man who abandoned the Night’s Watch when he encountered dead men and fled. Arya...has probably killed more people than she has even admitted to, and sometimes it made her feel satisfaction. Sansa set Ramsay Bolton’s hounds upon him and she watched while they tore at his face. I nearly killed him by my own hands once I took hold of him. If all of that is more noble and accepting than setting fire to those who wish you harm...then I’m afraid their judgement is misplaced.”

By now Dany’s cheeks were wet with tears, her lips pressed together tightly so as to stifle whimpers at his words. Jon was almost breathless by his long-winded speech, and his eyes bore into hers as if begging her to understand. He was aware that she was under constant pressure, the unfair scrutiny that was placed on her because her only physical defense was her dragons. Great and terrifying beasts that only she could command that instilled a deeper fear into people’s hearts than any blade. With dragons, she could be invincible, and it most certainly played a large role in keeping her out of any near-death scenarios, but even the dragons were susceptible to mortality.

Jon slid closer to her, his bare legs straddling each side of her while his arms protectively enclosed around her, bringing her into him as she lay her cheek onto his shoulder. For a few moments she was at a loss for words, but allowed herself to silently cry, taking comfort in his embrace. When she felt composed enough, she lifted her head and her slightly swollen, reddened eyes found his again. His thumbs found their way across each side of her face, drying the dampness that remained there.

“You’re the only person to never question my motives,” she whispered, her voice giving out. A gentle kiss was placed on her forehead.

“Because you’re all I’ve ever wanted as badly as I’ve wanted anything...except maybe for the wars to end,” he gently bantered, to which she promptly and playfully sneered at him. Her face pressed closer until she was kissing him, the salty taste of tears mingling on her lips. They began to take it further until they both came to an agreement that it would be safest if Dany escaped his chambers before the castle woke. Begrudgingly for both of the lovers, they dressed and she went on her way, her heart full.

\---

Sansa had spent most of her night and early morning hours with her mind on the state of the north and of Winterfell. She felt helpless in that there wasn’t much in her current stance that could assist the northmen who were sailing back to a home in ruin, but when she would grow bitter against Dany’s decision, she would close her eyes and remove herself from her personal state of mind and place herself in Dany’s. Had Sansa herself been an inevitable queen of the seven kingdoms whose character had been all but ravaged in Westeros, would she have kept those who refuted her claim in her company? Despite knowing the long night was upon them and that the previous one lasted centuries, would she have it within her to send them to a possible death, their blood freezing in their veins? One thing was certain - half of the northerners still supported Dany, and it was more support than they had received when they were at war with the Boltons.

Much of her wanted to distrust Dany, to confront her and demand why she felt she had any right to behave as if her head already wore the crown.Sansa was stubborn, that she knew; it was one of the few traits she carried with her from childhood. But in speaking with others over the last few days, the spite she carried lessened and became more brittle. Bran gave her an abstract summary of Dany’s accomplishments, her sacrifices and what she had done that became questionable.

Tales of her use and rumored abuse of dragon fire and the means in which she used it became fragmented whispers, and those who fed them into the ears of their listeners construed their own interpretations. Whether they held prejudice for the name of Targaryen, of the Mad King’s reputation, or refused to accept the rule of a young foreign queen; no matter the reason, word traveled long and far and in the process it no longer resembled the reality of who Daenerys Targaryen was. When Sansa then spoke with Arya, who could read anyone as an open book, her sister made her feel quite small when she raved about how happy Dany made Jon, that she was easy to converse with, and was far less intimidating once her steely exterior was broken into.

Arya then picked at Sansa’s brain, asking her if after all she survived, that she had not managed to slip into gruesome ideas of how each of her abusers would suffer if she had the will to do it herself. Sansa had to think long and hard - not because she never considered how she wished death and torture upon those who violated her - but how _frequently_ she allowed such imaginings to play out in her head. With Joffrey, she had been often locked away in her chambers, both by choice and by force of Cersei. Much of that time, especially after being forced to look upon the severed head of her father mounted atop King’s Landing, nothing brought her more joy in those times than wishing for his death. She wished his own head were on a spike, that she could have pushed him over that ledge with her own hands and accept the consequences, that perhaps the Hound would snap and plunge his sword into the king’s heart.

The rapers of King’s Landing during its last famine came after her in groups, and long after the shock of the Hound disemblowing them in front of her naive eyes, had found herself feeling quite delighted that the men got their comeuppance. Then there was Ramsay - by then she was a grown woman who had seen enough and survived as much as she had. But by then she knew how to play the game to make that survival last. She accepted Littlefinger’s suggestion of the marriage, but she didn’t know it would entail nightly rapes, bruises and lacerations to her fragile body. Whenever she dared speak and Ramsay disliked it, his hand found itself swiftly lurching her face in an abnormal angle. But eventually, she got her revenge, and she enjoyed it.

And then there was Theon. The sweet Theon who lay beside her now in his bed chambers, who she had once wished the most vile thoughts upon when she had then believed he was responsible for her two young brother’s deaths. Even still, he had betrayed Robb. But as all of them had grown, Theon had possibly evolved the most. He had been a brash, overconfident boy in Winterfell, defying the Starks to prove his own father he was worthy of being named King of the Iron Islands. Then Ramsay got his hands on him and his soul had been broken, his identity shattered until, years later and excruciatingly slowly, returned to himself once more.

Their romance had blossomed unexpectedly. He became a dear companion to her and their kinship matured into something neither of them had expected. Theon saved her life, and then they saved each other from the same monster who tortured them for so long. When he returned to Winterfell to pledge himself to the Starks, it occurred to her then that she loved him. He was patient with her, as well - a young Theon would have tossed her over his ship if he were denied physical intimacy. But this Theon faced death more times than not and took nothing for granted. The thought of being touched sexually still tortured her and made her nauseous; images of Ramsay plagued her mind when she realized the direction in which their relationship was turning. But Theon respected her boundaries and promised to never push her.

Her first deflowering was that of Ramsay violating her in the most cruel of ways as he forced Theon to watch. There were a hundred scenarios that she could allude to as her worst memory, but that was certainly one of the most damaging ones. The humiliation, pain, and fear she felt that night on sometimes still haunted her dreams at night. It wasn’t until she became comfortable enough with Theon that she asked if he would allow her to rest beside him, to know when she woke that it had only been a nightmare and Theon’s presence would quickly bring her back into reality. That conversation eventually lead to that of what would make her feel most at ease, and after she apologized relentlessly for not being strong enough to provide him a carnal love, he instantly quieted her with a reassuring hug.

In her deep thought, he stirred beside her, his mop of messy hair hanging just above his eyes. She smiled gently as his body became aware to the morning hour, his eyes squeezing shut as the dull, grey light reflected off the chamber walls. He sighed deeply, turning to see her before him.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he mumbled groggily, rolling to his side and trapping her in his arms. “What’s been on your mind?”

She wondered if she had been that obvious, but they had plenty of late nights discussing the goings-on of their lives. She huddled up against his chest. “Daenerys. Jon made me promise to acquaint myself with her. I know that I will, eventually...I don’t know why I’ve put it off for so long.”

Theon closed his eyes, an easy crooked smile resting on his lips. “Because you’re afraid she won’t turn out to be what you’ve expected her to be.”

The sureness of his words caught her off-guard but amused her just the same. Perhaps she wasn’t as conspicuous as she used to be. That, or she was spending far too much time with him. “Maybe. You know I don’t handle being wrong very well.”

“I do know,” he replied in jest, his arms shifting to hold her tighter when she began to playfully wriggle out of them. “You both have more in common than probably most on this island. Go and have a chat with her and you’ll see.”

After a moment of thought, she freed herself from his grasp and sat up, her long sea of vibrant red tresses flowing freely down the length of her gowned back. Theon’s hand gingerly raked through the strands, admiring its hue and the beauty of her side profile. Her arms came to wrap around her legs, eyes entranced on the diminished light of the wood in the fireplace. The knowledge of Jon’s heritage she had kept to herself; not even Theon knew, but she promised Jon she would not tell a soul. The chaos that would be inflicted on him, and that would ripple through everyone, was too great. Additionally, she accepted and became grateful that Jon hadn’t shared the news with her earlier on, for in her state of mind only mere months ago she would have gladly shouted what she learned to the world.

But she had been put in her place and eventually came to accept Jon for what he was: the true King in the North, and now Aegon Targaryen, the true heir to the Iron Throne. She knew he wouldn’t accept it; it was a daunting task to manage seven entire kingdoms and he had been fighting all his life. The last thing he wanted to do was oversee the squabbles of one house who hated the other, the politics and its complications, the neverending duties that a king or queen would hold, the possibility of more war. She was stubborn and was well aware of it. She was a slow learner as she admitted to Littlefinger shortly before his execution, but she promised herself she would learn to consider those around her before making executive decisions.

After she and Theon dressed for the day, they exited his chambers; he to the forgery where Gendry was hammering away, and her to break her fast. Arya was at her side suddenly, but her silent appearances no longer hitched her breath as they used to. These days she nearly expected it.

“Have you seen Varys lurking about?” Arya asked, her voice barely a murmur in the echoing hall.

“No, but I expect he’s about some business or another. Why?” A small frown plagued Sansa’s face at the sudden interest in the Spider.

“He’s been unusually absent as of late. I believe he’s up to something and I’ve been trying to keep a watchful eye on him.”

“What is it you know?” Sansa inquired, and Arya peered around them and brought her sister to a private corner in a small room ahead.

“I have suspicion to believe he’s waiting for the right moment to share the news about Jon. The way he’s been looking at them both, at Daenerys especially...it’s not a look of admiration. He doesn’t think anyone notices, but I’ve been watching him every moment I can spare.” Arya’s deep brown eyes were hard and it was evident to Sansa that this was more serious than she imagined.

A small sigh gently breathed through Sansa’s lips as she thought for a moment. “He won’t expect me to be looking for him. I’ll search the less populated rooms.”

“Just try not to be too obvious; he’s two steps ahead of everyone else,” Arya warned, and with a nod, Sansa began her search as Arya took the opposite direction.

\---

The afternoon came and went and Lord Varys had yet to be found when Arya and Sansa convened again. Night had fallen and they agreed to conclude for the night, but Arya would not rest this night.

Hours passed and the moon was only a shroud of light in the thick cover of cloud and frost. Snow began to fall upon the earth, feathering the tundra below it as the winds blew kindly tonight. In his deep sleep, Jon could hear panicked shouting, commands from foot soldiers and the shrill clamor of swords meeting. Somewhere beyond, the distant shrieking of dragons pierced the air. Enclosed around the sound was an increasing echo of quick footsteps.

There was a stirring beside him, and Jon’s eyes flung open, and once his senses returned to him, he blinked away sleep to see Dany sitting up. She held the furs close to her, her face frowning in the dim moonlight that shone into the room, and Jon sat up beside her.

Her hand found his leg to stop him from moving. “Did you hear that? The dragons...” She asked, but before he could answer, there was a desperately hard pounding at Jon’s door, both Dany and Jon flinching at the sound.

“Jon! We need you, _now_!”

Frantic, Jon hastily pulled on breeches, Dany becoming wide-eyed. There were various voices shouting outside, far below Jon’s chambers, punctured by a sudden deafening blast of sound as something struck near the castle and sent a vibration through the floors. Dany quickly hopped off the bed, grabbing her gown from earlier in the evening and pulled it on over her bare body.

Jon sprinted to the door and quickly unlatched it as Tyrion stumbled in, struggling to find his breath, his arms gesturing to try and convey his message.

“Is the queen with-” Tyrion began, until he caught sight of Dany further in the room and he sighed heavily with relief, his hand clutching at his heart, but quickly tore his eyes from her state of half undress. “Euron...the Iron Fleet...we need to move; they’re trying to breach the castle.”

There was no time for questions; Jon dressed himself in his leathers and armor in record speed before he turned to Dany, hitching Longclaw along his hip. He firmly grasped her shoulders. “You and Tyrion stay here; the higher up you are, the safer you are if they get in.”

Dany frowned, shaking her head as she laced her gown completely. “I’m not abandoning my people; I need to get to Drogon.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion interjected, his voice unsteady. “Euron’s ships are loaded with scorpions; the dragons are keeping their distance without their mother’s command, but I don’t think it wise to fly them now. The snow is blinding.”

Dany’s eyes widened, the collective sound of people dying just outside causing her great anxiety. “There’s no time for a debate now; I will fly under the cover of the darkness and burn the Iron Fleet.”

Without another word, Dany half-ran past Tyrion and back to her chambers to quickly dress in her winter garb. Tyrion looked to Jon with a hopeless expression.

“I need to get down there; how far have they gotten?” Jon asked, hand on the hilt of his sword, as they began to run swiftly down the halls to the lower levels.

“Some of them have made land; Euron’s fleet has the advantage of the sea at his back. The ships are also equipped with crossbows that can reach those on land. The remaining Unsullied are doing their best to defend the gates, but I’m afraid the Ironborn are gaining momentum.” Tyrion’s voice shook; Jon suddenly turned to him. The Unsullied soldiers who had escorted the northerners to Winterfell had yet to return, which meant they were very shorthanded.

“You need to stay in here, find somewhere safe and out of sight.” With that, Jon ran down another level before he was soon flanked alongside Arya, Jaime, The Hound, Tormund, Beric, Edd, Theon, Ser Jorah, and a hoard of northmen.

“Has anyone seen Her Grace?” Jorah asked frantically as they exited the castle onto the grounds.

“Drogon,” Jon said gruffly, though when he looked up he couldn’t find any sign of either Drogon or Rhaegal. There was dense and heavy cloud cover, but Jon internally swore to himself for allowing Dany to insist she take to the skies. Jorah’s face seemed to have fallen, but was soon distracted by the sight ahead and below them as they descended closer to the bay.

Even in the darkness the number and power of Euron’s fleet was palpable; slowly more Ironborn made land on foot, but the archers remained on their ships. More ships emerged from the dense fog among the water. The sound of arrows piercing flesh and ricocheting off of Unsullied armor carried over the water, hollars and groans and shouting intermingled from either side.

There was an accumulating thump of horse’s feet on the castle grounds as Jon and company grew ever closer to the Ironborn, and then the familiar screams of the Dothraki as they herded themselves behind Jon and soon enclosed them, arakhs risen high into the air.

Within seconds they were upon the Ironborn; Jon found his first victim and threw Longclaw clean against the man’s throat, ushering a sickening gurgle as he bled to the ground. It had been too long since Jon had last used a sword properly, but he was grateful he had the time to brush up with Arya days past. The Unsullied were quickly becoming overrun, but now the Ironborn were being pushed back with the Dothraki and their horses colliding with them.

Spinning, Jon pounded the hilt of his sword against the helm of a soldier, taking advantage of his unsteadiness and thrusting his sword beneath the man’s arm into his ribs. He suddenly ducked to the ground as a Dothraki rider was pierced to the ground with a crossbow; Jon looked up and rolled on his side as a foe’s sword swung at his head and was caught in the freezing ground. Without rising, Jon swung his arm in a half-circle and cut through the Ironborn’s leg, then into his back for good measure.

He could hear Arya’s shouts as she cut in and out between each Ironborn soldier, trying to focus on her voice through the thickening crowd. The vibration of a group of crossbows passed through Jon’s body as he dropped to the ground again, and five arrows whizzed by his head before he made contact with the frozen grass, making four clean rows of its victims as hoards of Ironborn rushed the gaps.

“ _They breached the castle! Fall back!_ ”

Jon was unsure who was making the commands; it very well could have been Davos, but the screeching of Drogon overhead tuned out any other noise. In the midst of cutting down men, Jon tried to find a vantage point to find Dany, but had no difficulty once the stream of dragonfire began to torch the rear ships from behind. Jon sighed with tentative relief; she was creating a flaming barrier that would enclose the remaining fleet. But then his heart began to race. It would be equally as difficult for them to see her as it would be for her to see them. One lucky arrow into the sky could very well stick its landing.

Most of them had fallen back to the castle; both outside the gates and within. When he was finally able to reach Arya, he grabbed her arm. “Go and find Sansa and Bran and anyone else still inside; bring some men with you. I’ll hold the Ironborn off.”

Without question, Arya nodded and fought her way through the crowd to inside the castle walls. The moment Jon went to turn around, he was bludgeoned in the face by a shield, the impact throwing his body off to the side into the ground that may as well have been solid ice. His face throbbing and blood collecting in his mouth, he adjusted his eyes, white spots filling his vision against the black of night. A body quickly hovered over him, and with a shout into the cold air, Jon grabbed his sword and thrust its point up into the man’s groin with all the will that he had. The man fell upon him, crushing Jon’s chest as he pushed him over and pulled Longclaw from the body before swinging through more men incoming.

He was quickly becoming overrun, but he had strayed far from the gates where an endless sea of bodies was swaying from one direction to the next to defend the castle. Jon spit a cluster of blood to the ground and used a spin movement with a shout to clear soldiers from his immediate area. He could still see Drogon zigzagging amongst the fleet, reappearing and then hiding in the swarm of low clouds, creating an illuminous display in the mirror of the sea before he lost sight of them again. The ships burned mercilessly, distant shouts and splashes from bodies and ship wreckage meeting the water.

As he became overwhelmed by Ironborn, Jon lifted Longclaw to the air but the ground shook behind and over him as Rhaegal rained dragonfire into the faces of the men who effortlessly turned to ash. Jon felt a lump form in his throat; Rhaegal’s massive body stood over his trembling body, his leathern winged arms flexed out to his sides. The frozen grass singed a dark and steaming path until the end of the stream of flame, and he watched with a startled fondness.

Knowing full well that a scorpion arrow could project at any time, Jon ducked beneath Rhaegal’s winged arm and climbed up his thick hide until he found his seat. Longclaw in one hand, he grasped a spike along the dragon’s spine as he took to the air. They rose and took cover behind the opposite end of the castle briefly, Jon’s eyes scanning the sky until Drogon swooped down toward them. Another sigh of relief escaped him as Dany was still perched on Drogon’s back, but before too long Euron’s fleet had retreated and disappeared into the blackness of night cover and misted air. Jon and Dany remained skyborn a little while longer, scouting the bay to ensure they wouldn’t be ambushed again before accepting that they were safe for now. Dany mentioned she had spotted a lone ship in the far distance, but hadn’t been able to recognize the mast’s sigil or where they had gone off to.

Their dragons made landfall and together, Jon and Dany eagerly found themselves back inside the castle, but not before acknowledging the bodies that littered the castle grounds before the gates: Unsullied, Dothraki, northern civilians and northmen alike. When they got inside, the number of casualties didn’t cease. Amongst the dead were the wounded and the northern women and children who had come out of hiding, some of them sobbing over unmoving bodies. Jorah caught up to them and nearly doubled over at the sight of Dany unscathed.

They frantically searched for familiar faces, then Jon gently grabbed Dany’s elbow. “Take Ser Jorah and search the castle for more survivors.”

With a nod, Jorah led a wide-eyed Dany through the halls and Jon ran up the stairs only to nearly collide with Tormund. It took him longer than it should have to notice the body he was holding; Edd. His face contorted in despair, Jon ran his hand over Edd’s face to close his eyes. His hand shook as it touched the cold flesh. They stood together a moment, grieving wordlessly, and then Jon asked Tormund to burn his body.

Tormund made his way down the stairs as Jon continued his search for more survivors. A few women and their children came by him to confirm if they were safe, to which he assured them so, and finally he passed by an open door where Arya, Sansa and Bran had been stowed away. When he walked in, feeling his body relax at the sight of them all alive and unhurt, he was surprised to find the Hound standing in the corner of the room overlooking the bay from the window.

“Cunts, the lot of them,” Sandor muttered, then turned to Jon.

“Has anyone seen Tyrion?” Jaime came stumbling down the hall with worry, but was interrupted as a curdling scream reverberated through the halls and straight through Jon. Instantly his body went rigid and cold; he recognized Dany’s voice even through her outcry. Without a look back, he darted through the passageways and nearly leapt down the stairs until he found the correct corridor and bolted. There were distraught gasps which drew him to Dany’s chambers. When he turned the corner, his heart sank to the floor.

There, cradled in Dany’s arms, was a lifeless Missandei. Ser Jorah stood at Dany’s shoulder, a hand gently on her shoulder as she rested her forehead against Missandei’s. Jon’s breathing became shallow, and slowly he entered the room, acknowledged by a solemn Jorah, and he knelt beside her.

Scanning Missandei as Dany rocked her in her arms, there was a well-placed slit in her sleep gown where her heart was. Blood pooled beneath her. A deep gash was oozing red at the corner of her forehead. The overwhelming agony Dany expressed before him had Jon scrambling for ways to comfort her, his hand then rubbing gently against her back causing her to jump as she had not heard nor seen him come in.

When her eyes found his, they were distressingly red, wet and her eyelids swollen. His face shifted into anguish for her. Jon stood and considered Jorah for a moment.

“There’s still some missing; will you stay with her?” He asked, pleading, though not wanting to leave Dany’s side.

“Of course,” Jorah replied solemnly, never leaving Dany’s side as he never did when she needed him most. Jon looked down at the scene before him a second longer, and then made his way out in search of Tyrion.

He was unsure how much time had passed, but he searched every nook and room and passageway, questioning passersby if they happened upon Tyrion during the siege or after but to no avail. The dread washed over him and finding a moment of solitude, he leaned against the wall, his hand running over his face and wincing when he grazed the lesion on his cheek.

The number of dead men was yet unknown, but judging from all he had seen on his walk back into the castle, it was substantial. His body began to shiver in its reluctance to give in to further stress, so he continued on back to the main hall where most had convened.

Lost in his thoughts, he was slow to acknowledge that Varys spoke his name.

“My Lord.” Varys was stonelike, not relaxed in his usual over-confident demeanor. “I’m afraid to report that the Ironborn have captured Lord Tyrion aboard The Silence. When I came to see what all the fuss was about, he told me he needed to get to Missandei and Lady Sansa, for protection. That was the last I knew of his whereabouts and since have scouted the castle with some others, but he is nowhere to be found.”

Exhaling slowly, Jon closed his eyes, and just for a short time wished all worries would cease to exist when he opened them again. All he could do was nod, breathless as he was, and Varys bowed before moving on.

Jon’s eyes fell upon each individual in the room, and soon he ordered those who were able to begin finding the proper materials to build a few pyres so they could burn the bodies of the dead. The fact that he wasn’t able to do so back in Winterfell hadn’t been forgotten by him; the dragons had already burned some of the bodies in the midst of engaging with the wights there, but it wasn’t enough and now those folk had risen and fought for the Night King. Though the dead were south for now, he didn’t wish to risk it happening here as well.

\---

The remaining northmen had collected and stacked wooden logs in layers, the gaps quickly being filled with bodies. An approximate figure was that they had lost three hundred and fifty men. Jon silently recited the Night’s Watch vows in his head before Edd’s body, and with a signal, he and a few others brought their torches to the pyres until they came alight.

A long moment of silence filled the air as the flames grew wild and released smoke and ash into the bitter air. Jon had begun the request of a casket for her; Grey Worm was yet to return from Winterfell and he would wish to say his farewell.

Dany had become so burdened with grief that she was unable to sleep that night. There were a couple of masters amongst them, populated from some of the northern regions who took solace in Winterfell, having ridden in safety of the Dothraki after Winterfell was sacked. The man who conjured up a small dose of milk of the poppy for Dany referenced to Jon that when they had come to rest upon a field on their journey to Dragonstone, he had plucked armfuls of poppy flowers and was nearly beheaded by a nearby farmer for it. But he was saved when the Dothraki rider had sliced the farmer’s head clean off his shoulders. Because Jon was still wary about the northern men and women’s allegiance to Dany, he told the healer that the concoction was for himself, to reduce the risk of a poison being slipped into it. He trusted the northern lords and ladies less now than he wanted to admit, and under a new and foreign ruler to them, he could never be too cautious.

When he had brought it to Dany, she had been curled up in her bed, unmoving, refusing to drink it under suspicion that someone would try to kill her again. But Jon had insisted it wasn’t, that he lied and told the maester, Maester Henly, who had been the maester of Winterfell, it was meant for him and he tried it himself without effect, and she finally accepted defeat.

That night, once Jon completed his rounds on checking in on everyone’s needs, they secured the castle and posted more guards around the perimeter. When he returned to Dany’s chambers, she had fallen asleep in the same position as she lay hours before, and he came to rest beside her. But sleep was useless; at some point just before dawn, he gave up and left Dany to rest peacefully, pulling a woolen blanket up to her arms. Missandei’s body had been encased in a makeshift wooden casket, but was unable to be adorned with flowers due to winter frost. As Sansa had been quite shaken from the castle breach, she worked through the night to embroider a casing for the casket made of Essosi silk that had been fixed at the end of her bed.

When it was complete, Sansa held it out before her to examine her work. It had been some time since she had last picked up a needle. The deep violet silk now embellished a hand-sized maroon three-headed dragon to represent House Targaryen, and the sigil was enclosed in the outline of a butterfly. Sansa had learned long ago in her lessons with Septa Mordane of Naath’s god, the Lord of Harmony, and how the island’s butterflies were laden with a disease called the Butterfly Fever. When conquerors would attempt to make land on Naath, the butterflies, charged to protect their people, fell prey to the illness. The design represented the Naathi butterfly protecting the Targaryen sigil within its wings, as it protected its own people from harm.

Until the war was over, Missandei would be stowed away in the Dragonstone dungeons, and Maester Henly who had concocted the milk of the poppy for Dany would then cover Missandei’s body in oils infused with spiceflower, cinnamon, and lavender, all believed by him to preserve the body from decay.

\---

By early morning, most of Dragonstone’s inhabitants had found rest, but Jon had not. As he began to make his way outside, Varys appeared silently, approaching Jon from a private room. Ghost, who had been padding silently beside him, raised his hackles and Varys kept a distance from the beast. Low rumbles continued in his chest. The direwolf’s head came up to Jon’s rib cage, having grown enormously within the last year.

“Lord Snow, we must discuss the matter of your lineage,” Varys’s voice was just above a whisper.

If Jon’s eyes could have pierced Varys in that moment, they would have. With Ghost obediently at his side, they stepped into the private room; it was barely lit with a small candle at the mantle, and smelled harshly of a perfume that Jon could only recognize as one Varys would wear.

He walked closer to Varys. “Our queen has barely grieved for the loss of her greatest friend and advisor; her Hand is in Euron’s custody, probably being brought to Cersei as leverage and eventually death, and we just lost hundreds of men...and you feel this is the appropriate time to discuss me?”

Varys didn’t blink, as he so often never reflected any feeling of intimidation. In fact, he usually appeared bored when being threatened. “When do you suppose is a right time, then? In King’s Landing when the dead are upon us? I am loyal to the realm, Lord Snow. Which means I am just as responsible as you to ensure the safety of its inhabitants.”

Jon clenched his fists at his side, tension building in his chest. “I made my oath to Daenerys and I will keep that oath and fight alongside her. That is my responsibility. Daenerys is more capable than any of us, or any man alive, to do her duty as queen and serve the realm well. You don’t know her like I do.”

“No, I suppose I never took a fancy to bedding my queen.” The impudence Varys was displaying before him caused Jon’s hand to reflexively reach for his sword, but he thought better of it. His teeth mashed together in his mouth, determined to remain level-headed.

“But that is no matter to me at all. I couldn’t care less who you or she lay with. I’ve lived most of my life hoping to see a Targaryen rule again. However, I would want it to be the _right_ Targaryen. With each loss, Daenerys gets pegged down again and again, and grows more ruthless with it. She sent the northerners, _your_ men who you often shared meat and mead with, many who fought for you, a bastard in their eyes...back to Winterfell. She will have sent them to their deaths with this winter.” Varys’s head craned to one side, eager to hold Jon’s attention, who now closed his eyes in frustration.

“I’ve killed men for lesser offenses,” Jon seethed. “Regardless if they were my men or not, they condemn her rightful place as queen. It isn’t right that Daenerys should be held to a different standard because her weapon of choice is the only one she knows. How does that make her any more barbaric than you or I?” Jon took a large step forward until he was within inches from the man’s plump face. “If you should conspire to betray her or bring her to any harm and attempt to put me in her place, I’ll feel no guilt for sentencing you to death by my own hands.”

With that, Jon left Varys standing alone, not wishing to engage him further on a matter so uninteresting to him. Ghost bared his teeth at the man before following his master out, often reflecting Jon’s feelings.

Jon padded his way to the cliffside alongside Ghost, where he found the dragons to be resting. Stopping, he watched them from where he stood, and they each craned their necks to find him, stretching themselves to inspect him and Ghost. A low rumble of a growl erupted in the direwolf’s chest, but without breaking his trance, Jon reached his hand down to stroke between his ears. The dragons merely rumbled in return to the wolf before resuming their placidity, likely knowing he was hardly a threat to two large dragons. Jon walked forward, his eyes trailing along the beasts’ scaled hide and marveling at their features. When he was within arms length of Rhaegal, the dragon exhaled a hot, bass-like snort through his nose and slowly closed the space between them.

Jon reached his hand out and grazed the rugged texture of Rhaegal’s face, watching as his pupils dilated at his touch. Jon released a long-held breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, then turned his attention to Ghost whining a few feet away.

“Ghost, to me,” Jon gestured, kneeling toward the ground. Ghost’s head hung low, his steps slow and wary. Drogon came closer to join them, and now both dragons were eyeing the wolf curiously. Finally, after much trepidation, Ghost met Jon’s hand. When Drogon released a weak cry, Ghost’s body contorted and his rear hunched, but Jon assured him that he was safe.

At last, the direwolf stepped in closer and his nose began to sniff the air a mere inches before Rhaegal’s snout. Jon smiled, keeping one hand against Rhaegal’s face low below his eye, and another extended to Ghost. With a timid lick of the tongue to Rhaegal’s nose, the dragons observed this act of affection with great interest. They each displayed sounds of a shrill lament together, Drogon flapping his wings which, in turn, returned a bark from Ghost. Jon grinned, reaching forward to run his hand reassuring through the wolf’s thick white fur.

“Good boy. Go find Daenerys; keep her warm for me until she wakes.” As Ghost understood his commands, he licked Jon’s calloused hand before trotting off back into the castle.

When he turned back around, sharp winds whizzing and turning his skin to ice, he studied Rhaegal briefly. As if in sync, the dragon lowered his head to the ground, permitting Jon to mount. He tried memorizing each muscle and curvature of him to make for a smoother transition. It wasn’t perfect, but he found his seat much more gracefully this time around. Right away he gripped onto different sets of spikes, trying to find the most comfortable position. Drogon heeled back on his feet before his massive wings plunged into the air and his body followed. Jon sucked in a breath of air, lowering himself when he felt he was ready, and Rhaegal took his posture change as his signal as he kicked off the ground below and climbed steadily into the hazy morning air.

Jon practiced posturing himself at each angle, using similar techniques as one did on a horse; pushing himself forward when flying at an incline, and pulling his body back when flying down. It became more difficult when he would pivot sideways, and Jon could feel the gravity pulling him toward the open frozen bay below him. When Rhaegal became level again, Jon concentrated on slowing his heart as it was still an out of body experience for him to be riding a dragon. He, Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell most of his existing life.

Drogon was not far above them, and Jon took notice of how much larger he was compared to Rhaegal. It was hard to observe from afar, but it was no wonder why the beasts instilled fear. They had no predators, and their thick leathern hide was almost impossibly tough to pierce. It was a natural armor for them, but they weren’t completely invincible. When the Night King speared Viserion, it had perforated his eye and into his skull as he sunk to his death. The memory still upset Jon greatly, and though he couldn’t imagine the grief Daenerys manifested after she lost Viserion, he was able to feel more empathetic now that he was developing a relationship with Rhaegal.

When Rhaegal dipped toward the water, his talons grazed along the surface, and Jon remembered in his last ride that he was seeking a meal. They coasted this way for quite some time, and it became evident that perhaps the climate was growing too frigid for sea creatures. Jon frowned, wondering now whether or not the dragons and Ghost had been able to find a sufficient food source as of late. Most of the island relied on the seas when food stock ran low, unless they needed to pull livestock or crops from other regions. Jon leaned to his left, and Rhaegal obeyed. When nothing turned up, Jon had an idea that he was certain would not work.

“ _Dracarys_ ,” his northern husk commanded.

Simultaneously, Rhaegal’s flesh became febrile to its touch as a whirlwind of flame punctured deep into the water below, breaking through the thin ice that had formed at its surface. Jon whipped his head over his shoulder, the trench Rhaegal leaving behind met with thick rising steam upon the cold sea. Jon’s eyes had widened, not having expected Rhaegal to take to his command so early on. When the fire let up, he had them circle around, Drogon close behind them now. They backtracked the scalded path and finally, the dragons dipped their feet into the water to claim their prizes.

They collected fish to their heart’s content, effortlessly tossing them into the air to be roasted and fed into their gullets. Jon lifted his chest up more, watching in amazement as Drogon and Rhaegal swerved and danced around each other. Then Drogon fetched a particularly large fish and when he began to fly off with it, Rhaegal lunged forward in a swift dive. Jon threw himself forward to find anything to hold on to, his hands grasping desperately as his legs lost their strength. He found two large spikes to which he tightened his hands around at an uneven distance, his legs kicking up to reposition himself. Rhaegal only increased speed and tenacity, squalling at his brother. When he was within inches of Drogon, his large neck thrust forward, clamping down onto the tail of Drogon’s meal, but he wasn’t giving up. Drogon’s teeth snapped toward Rhaegal’s face without contact; Jon could feel the rush of air hit his face with each movement.

Rhaegal tore a piece of flesh from the fish, and Drogon grew angry, swooping down to knock him away. The impact was nothing more than a light push to the beasts, but it sent Jon over Rhaegal’s ribcage. Had he not the grip that he had, he would have fallen into the frigid waters below, but still, Rhaegal had been propelled so close to the surface that Jon’s legs met the bay below. Even for the few seconds that they were submerged before Rhaegal pivoted from his side, it felt like a thousand knives biting through his clothes. His chest felt as if it would burst having only imagined instant death. When Rhaegal became level again, he cried out to Jon, his head turning to see that his rider was safe.

With a heavy groan, Jon’s foot found Rhaegal’s shoulder and he launched himself back up into his seat at Rhaegal’s back, closing his eyes and bowing his head while he recovered. It had occurred to Jon then that it was late morning by now; he had wanted to be there when Dany woke, but had been otherwise sidetracked. The dragons appeared well-fed and well-mannered again, so they made way back to the island..

After landing, Jon shivered, ice crystals having formed against his wet clothes. When he landed on his feet again, Arya ran to him out of nowhere in particular, but Rhaegal and Drogon both hurled deafening outcries in her direction, to which she slid in her attempt to stop and landed hard on her hip. It was the first time Jon had seen a flash of fear catch her eyes, but even so, the amazement that plagued her was apparent. Jon turned back to face the beasts and when they acknowledged that she was not a threat, their cries transitioned into apologetic weeps.

Jon turned to Rhaegal, who bowed his head close to his rider, and Jon’s hand stroked the length of his snout as it snorted his hair back. As soon as the dragons took to the sky, he came to notice they flew closer to the castle than normal, sorrowful wails erupting in song between each of them. Arya approached him then, hastily grabbing a fistful of his arm. “Daenerys has woken, but she’s been taken ill.”

Without question, they sprinted their way back into the castle. Oddly, in the pit of his stomach, he felt unease as its acidic contents swirled restlessly. Everything about this moment in time was causing an internal panic; the dragon’s behavior, Arya's clear attempt at remaining calm...then upon entering, the masses were congregating and speaking in not-so-secretive whispers, many of them peering into one particular hall. Arya kept a firm grip on his arm as they pushed their way through the thickening crowd and Jon felt sick when his eyes fell upon several Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers standing in a firm line to intercept entryway deeper into the halls. They swiftly stood aside for them and when Jon looked over his shoulder, they were already returned to form.

They stood before the doors to Dany’s chambers, and something in Jon prevented him from crossing the threshold. Perhaps it was the sight of Sansa’s auburn hair, her face unseen to him, or maybe it was that she was accompanied by Theon, Sam, Bran…the dragons swept past the windows, and he was slowly coming to the realization that in his absence, something happened to Dany. This wasn’t a simple ailment. He couldn’t bring himself to see, yet his imaginings were worst of all.

Arya turned around to face him, her eyes empathetic and melancholy. Jon didn’t realize his legs were working him into the room, only that his sister was guiding him. When they entered, all who had gathered turned to face Jon, but he didn’t see them. By now his eyes had fallen onto Dany who was being tended to in haste by Maester Henly, longtime maester of Winterfell who survived the siege. She lay on her back, her limbs spread out to her sides; her pallor was greyer than normal and a purple-blue hue embellished deep beneath her skin. A thin streak of vibrant red streaked from her nose to her cheek.

Wordless, he was paralyzed where he stood, his mind racing with questions but they never reached his tongue. Maester Henly had only just finished applying some form of liquid into her mouth. A mostly untouched wooden plate of food lay at the table beside her bed, and the pieces were beginning to make sense to Jon now. He heard blurred words by those around him wishing to comfort him, something about poison, antidote...and then when someone muttered Varys’s name, Jon’s head cleared and his eyes scrambled to land on Arya.

“What?” He asked dumbfounded, his attention focused now on his little sister.

“Last night, in Sansa’s chambers, I saw a raven fly off with a scroll. I waited until this morning for more, but none came.” Arya watched him. “I can’t say for sure who sent it or what it entailed, but Varys was the only one absent during the attack.”

“Where is Varys now?” Jon’s voice was strung but vengeful.

“The Unsullied have him in the dungeons. A little servant girl ratted him out when Qhono found her running from this room after she delivered the food. She said the poison was hidden in some jewelry Varys was wearing. He didn’t deny it when they came for him.”

“Good. Keep him there for now.” Jon finally brought his eyes upward to where nearly all were watching him, but he turned to face Dany again. If he hadn’t known she had been poisoned, or that her loss of color painted her delicate skin as it did, he would have assumed her asleep. Her face didn’t look pained, but he didn’t know if that should be of a comfort or concern.

“Lord Snow,” said Maester Henly at her bedside as he began to collect his various tools. “I’ve come to believe, after inspecting Her Grace’s food, that she ingested essence of nightshade. A useful substance to ease one’s nerves, but deadly beyond three drops. It’s difficult to weigh how much she took in, but I am an old cynic who never travels without the companion of my antidotes. I pray to the old gods and the new that my timing was adequate, but this particular poison has often been resistant to remedy.”

The old man gathered his belongings and said he would return later to look for any new signs of life before exiting the chambers. Slowly, Jon placed himself where the maester was once sat, his eyes traveling along her face, unable to comprehend the last several hours. His throat became constricted and he scrambled to fathom how this could have happened.

“I shouldn’t have left her.” The words were thick in his throat and he swallowed hard to force down the lump forming.

“No. The fault was mine.” Bran’s monotonous voice hooked Jon’s attention, to which he could only silently ask what he meant. “I was trapped in a vision. Sam tried to wake me, but only I can break free of them. It lasted hours. I was unable to foresee Euron’s fleet because of this, as well.”

Sighing, Jon stroked his forehead with his hand, the threat of an ache throbbing. “Bran, I don’t expect you to be everywhere all the time. It’s impossible. I know how overwhelming it can even if I don’t completely understand it. You’ve been a great help to us. What did you see?”

“I have some things to share with you. But perhaps it’s best to wait for another time…” his voice faded out as his expressionless eyes fell to Dany, a subtle gesture that the timing was inappropriate. Jon mentally was grateful; good news or bad, he wasn’t sure he could handle much more right now. He could barely digest the simple presence of everyone here now.

Sansa stood and placed a friendly hand on Jon’s shoulder before she and Theon wheeled Bran out of the room. Arya pleaded for him to tell her of any changes to which he agreed to as she hugged her brother tightly and joined Sansa. Sam, who had been silent in the shadows and whom Jon had been completely unaware had been present, approached.

“I’m no maester just yet, but if there’s anything I can do...there are several books that cover the subject of medicines thoroughly; maybe I could find an alternative plan if she gets worse…” said Sam softly, and Jon flashed a brief smile of appreciation.

“Thank you, Sam. I’m sure we’ll need all the help we can get.” Sam lightly thumped Jon on the shoulder before leaving, quietly shutting the door behind him to leave Jon alone.

The room was slowly brightening as the day progressed. Daylight was scarce anymore; they would no longer see the sun again until winter ended. Jon smoothed his hand down the bed until he enclosed Dany’s within it. His eyes automatically coming to rest on her still face, pained and full of nothing less than regret that he had left her at all. Given all of the warning signs that Varys had been exhibiting, in hindsight Jon felt he should have been sure that at least someone was posted by her chambers.

The silence grew piercing and it was then that Jon fell into pieces, moving closer to her side. Lifting her hand to his face, he placed a lingering kiss on her palm, her skin colder than usual to the touch. His heart had been pounding at the anticipation that there would be no pulse, but his fingers had wrapped along her wrist and relief washed over him when the tiny throb was found beneath her skin. He brought the blankets further up, then trailed the same hand upward to stroke along her brow.

After a moment, he found the basin in her room and with a small sponge, gingerly cleaned away the dried blood beneath her nose. Now she truly could have been resting peacefully and would soon wake in his mind. He remained with her for an obscure amount of time; he knew it had been a long while by the lighting outside. Davos had come to summon him for a meeting at some point or other, but Jon declined, citing that he would no longer leave Dany’s side and he would join them once she gained consciousness again. For now, he advised Davos that he trusted in his word enough to substitute in for him, and they would convene again at a later time.

Finally, Jon found himself making a small space for himself beside her, and as uncomfortable and painful as it was to rest in metal plating, he needed to be at the ready should any more threats reach their shores. An arm cradled over her protectively, her hand secure in his, and he slowly fell into a nightmarish sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAAAAHH! I believe this is my longest chapter yet. Hope you all enjoyed the roller coaster of emotions!


	12. Part XII - Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei seeks retaliation. Dragonstone welcomes new guests. Jon visits Drogon and Rhaegal.

“Where has your captain run off to? It’s been days since I last knew of his whereabouts in the city,” Cersei demanded of Harry Strickland’s squire, Watkyn. Her tone was of a false kindness, a tight smirk pulling her lips across her face.

Watkyn and four soldiers of the Golden Company were summoned days after Harry’s departure of King’s Landing late into the night. He was of a younger age, and far less assured in his presence among Cersei than Harry was. “There was some disturbance in the city perimeters after...after you ordered him to kill those who revolted against you, Your Grace. He has since been scouting the outer castle walls as there have been many treasonous imposters seeking refuge amongst the small folk.”

There was a beat of silence. A small laugh escaped through Cersei’s nose and she looked down to her lap. Qyburn and The Mountain stood at either side of her, unmoving.

“Is that so?” She challenged, Watkyn shifting to his other foot with a nod. The other men stood still as stone. A slow creeping grin flashed brilliantly on her face then as she called for the guards. The heavy doors swung open behind them down the long hall, and several gold cloaks stepped through, each adorned with common folk in their possession.

The young pregnant mother, Nora, her two boys, and four others who had rioted against Cersei in the streets weeks ago stumbled in the grips of the city guards. Their wrists were secured tightly with irons and looked far worse for wear than the last time Cersei laid eyes on them.

“Either your captain lied to you, or he willingly betrayed my orders. These people were caught by the city watch trying to flee the city, accompanied by a group of your own men. Naturally, yours did not have the strength to defend themselves against the force of the city watch and were cut down as if it were a childish game of swordplay.” Cersei stood up. There were scattered whimpers amid each of the prisoners. Watkyn nervously kneaded his hands together as he looked over to the civilians through the sides of his eyes, fear quickly overwhelming him now.

“You all seem unusually quiet now,” Cersei quipped when the hostages were within earshot. “You had much more to say when last we met. I think it shall remain that way.” She drew in a deep breath, unshaking as she spoke her next command: “I’d like these disorderly rebels to be executed at once. Hang one above each of the seven gates. Perhaps that will send a better message to those who wish to oppose my authority.”

When Cersei got up to leave the room, she turned back on her heel. “And these fools as well.” Her eyes fell upon the men of the Golden Company and they were already beginning to draw their weapons, Watkyn fumbling to retrieve his. Cersei turned back around to return to her chambers, her advisers at her heels, with a vile smile plastered on her face as the brutal sound of her command cutting through the traitors rang violently down the halls.

\---

Six whole, agonizing days passed. There hadn’t been much change in Dany’s liveliness, though her color appeared to be returning. Jon never left her bedside. When he grew hungry, which was seldom, food was brought to him after being thoroughly inspected for safety precaution. People came and went with Maester Henly routinely checking in, so the company was never scarce.

Though Jon never quite lost faith that she would pull through, doubt began to creep in as the hours passed them by without a trace of awakening. He promised her each night that he would win this war for her and for the realm, that he would defeat the Night King and his army and Cersei with it regardless if they were outnumbered. It had been done before and there was no reason he was incapable of such a feat. He would do it for her at any cost so long as her dream was upheld, her vision for the good to prevail...

He would sit on the throne and accept the crown not for himself, but in honor of her legacy so that it wasn’t all forfeit.

Every day and every night he was sure to tell her he loved her, that she would come through soon enough, that there was still so much to live for yet. It was the first time in recent memory Jon had begged for mercy and the first time in ages that he wept. The feeling was foreign, but liberating to do so in only her company.

He loved her profoundly and it was painful, but a brand new pain that he longed for and wasn’t sure how he would go on if she had succumbed. The feeling muddled his mind; how could a woman such as her come to completely ambush his heart in the way that she did? There were endless qualities that he adored of her, but a sacred one to him was that she fell in love with him despite knowing, at the time, he was a bastard who held no other special titles or honors other than what Davos had presented to her the day they met. A queen of her stature and position with a devoted path was just as blindsided as he when he arrived onto her homeland. Neither of them could have expected to fall so hard, so fast, so desperately. Not only did she fall in love with him as a bastard, but continued to love him even when everything she strived to be could have been uprooted by the revelation of his own claim. Though he abdicated, he sincerely believed that she would have loved him unconditionally if he had accepted his position.

On the morning of an extravagantly bleak and snow-trodden seventh day, he was forced away from Dany’s chambers when Davos came to summon him. In the absence of Tyrion, Jon had been assigned as a secondhand adviser to assist in dealing with the important matters. A lone ship had arrived on their shores adorned with six men who had claimed they were a brotherhood of sellswords under the name of the Golden Company.

The name roused Jon out of his haze; long ago Jaime informed them that the sellsword company had been obtained by Cersei. Why they were here now both baffled him and created a cause for uncertainty amongst everyone given that they were freshly recovering from Euron’s attack. Jon walked briskly alongside Davos through the halls after Maester Henly took over at Dany’s bedside.

“They say they have an important matter to discuss with the queen,” Davos informed him.

“I thought they were loyal to Cersei?” Jon asked a bit dryly, internally irritated that this potential waste of his time was taking him away from Dany.

“They refused to get into anymore detail. We obtained their weapons without any pushback.”

The men had been brought to the throne room, the traditional room to greet guests, large and dark and cold as if to inspire fear within them. When the doors were opened, a tall, lean figure and the five men at his side turned to acknowledge their arrival. A handful of Unsullied soldiers and Dothraki men surrounded them and were posted at the door, spears and arakhs held low in their hands.

“Ser Harry Strickland,” Harry bowed politely when they stopped at a greeting distance. Harry’s hand gestured to each of the men beside him as he introduced them: “Ser Franklyn Flowers, Ser Marq Mandrake, and my serjeants Caspor Hill, Humfrey Stone, Brendel Byrne, and our paymaster Gorys Edoryen.”

Jon smiled cordially, a firm hand shake shared between each of them. “Jon Snow, Warden of the North and Ser Davos Seaworth. What brings you gentleman here in such inclement weather?”

“Lord Snow,” a knowing smirk reached Harry’s face, to which Jon questioned internally. “Your name has long been exalted as far as the Free Cities. Your swordsmanship and your successes hold much praise in our part of Essos.”

Stunned, Davos made a face that resembled pride and Jon stared disbelieving before collecting himself. “That’s very kind. I could never have imagined that would come to be.”

Harry nodded before returning to Jon’s inquiry. “Our travels were not without its troubles, I can assure you, but I hope they will be worth the difficulty.” A small smile briefly flashed on Harry’s face. “We’ve come to notice Queen Daenerys is absent; perhaps it was poor timing on our part. If she could spare us a few minutes of her time, we’d be greatly obliged to her.”

Jon briefly glanced at Davos over his shoulder, his eyes falling to the floor before returning to Harry. “Our queen has regrettably been otherwise preoccupied on another matter. But may I ask, we received word you were under Cersei’s order. Is that no longer the case?”

Harry sucked in a silent breath, collecting his arms behind his back to rest there. “It’s part of the purpose that brings us here. We are no longer obligated to fulfil queen Cersei’s agreement as she forfeit her contract. The details I would much prefer to share with your queen as well when she may be available.”

Jon swallowed, his mind racing. The man seemed honest enough; Jon usually considered himself a decent judge of character, and thus far they had willingly given up their weapons and their ship was docked where they could not board at any given moment. Harry bore the eyes of an honest man at the very least. “She has been taken unexpectedly ill. We are unsure if...when she may wake again.”

The news struck Harry silent, and he licked his lips, his eyes darting between his men before landing back on Jon. “I am very sorry to hear that. In that case, would it be much trouble to linger? Should her health decline further, which we hope it will not come to that, perhaps we could bring the matter to your attention in her place.”

“Of course,” Jon accepted, peering over his shoulder and then to the empty throne and platform where Missandei and Grey Worm formerly would be placed at Dany’s sides. “We will have rooms prepared for you and food brought to you, if you’d like.”

“Food will not be necessary, my lord, but we thank you. As I know our ship has been confiscated, we’ve come prepared with our own rations. If I could retrieve it -” A suspicious look from Jon made Harry rewind. “I would be more than happy to retrieve it attended by as many men as you wish. I mean no harm to any of you, truly, and we do not wish to reduce your food supply as we are unexpected guests and it is growing harder to come by these days as it is.”

“Please forgive my manners,” Jon said assuredly. “It’s been a trying time and we recently were ambushed by foes of ours, so our trust in visitors has been naught.”

“Ah, yes.” The familiarity of the circumstance reignited the wariness in Jon again. He had been so on edge and mistrustful of unfamiliar guests that his judgement had been skewed. “The Iron Fleet. I’d received word the day of their departure that they would be heading here. Coincidentally it aligned with the breach of our contract with Cersei. Actually, had it not been for the billowing smoke and the flames amongst his fleet, we may not have found Dragonstone when we did, what with the high tides at sea. We presumed the attack had begun, so we sailed at a wide berth to ensure Euron would not see us. It brought us well out of our way, but one glimpse of me from Euron and we would have been sunk.”

Nodding in understanding, Jon felt himself relax a little bit more. Perhaps this man was truthful after all. He didn’t dislike him; he was more courteous than most who usually desired the request of a monarch. As Jon went to open his mouth, Ser Jorah walked in, stopping when his eyes fell upon the men. Jon and Davos rotated to see him.

“I didn’t believe it when I’d heard,” Jorah said with a tone of delight in his voice. He took a few paces closer until he was beside Davos, outstretching his hand to greet the men.

“Old Bear, you’ve aged not a day since last we met,” Harry said gleefully, a genuine smile on his face at the sight of Jorah.

“You know these men?” Davos questioned Jorah.

“I once fought among them as an exiled knight,” Jorah explained. “Ser Harry was a young lad when I left to find more work for myself to survive, not yet knighted.”

Davos swiveled on his heel to briefly acknowledge Jon, giving him a look that indicated he was quite entertained by what was unfolding. “Friends of Ser Jorah are friends of ours,” Jon said, then gestured for the guards. It was strange for them to accept his beckoning; Dany was the only one they took orders from, and rightfully so, but it comforted Jon knowing that he had become familiar enough with her armies that they permitted his temporary authority. “These men don’t serve me, but are loyal to Queen Daenerys. They will accompany you to your ship to retrieve your food supply and then will show you to your rooms. Guards will be posted at your doors, as I’m sure you understand; should you require anything further, it will be brought to my attention until the queen returns to us.”

Harry nodded considerately, as did the men beside him, before they were led outside, surrounded by foot soldiers.

Once the doors closed, Jon exhaled and turned to Jorah. “How well do you know Ser Harry? Is he to be trusted enough to have a place here until Daenerys becomes conscious?”

Jon’s optimism seemed to sadden Jorah, his eyes reflecting sorrow. “I was not with them for very long, but if Harry is as gracious as he was as an adolescent, then I’m keen to believe he is no threat. They are highly skilled warriors, the Golden Company. Never have they lost a battle nor broken a contract. Did he say what they were here for?”

“Some business with the queen that he wouldn’t share with us,” Davos said bitterly. “I admit, even my curiosity is curious. A paymaster is in their company which might mean they intend on a transaction of sorts. It must be serious if they cannot share it with us. I suppose we best brush up on our titles, eh?”

Jon was unable to hide a grin, gently clapping Davos on the back before he began to walk toward the door. “I should get back. I don’t want to miss any changes.”

\---

At the port of King’s Landing Cersei stood flanked by her queenguards, having been increased as the uprising grew steadier each day. Just ahead, the Iron Fleet came into view, Euron’s flagship emerging through the thickness of the mist that had crept in from Blackwater Bay and now seeped upon the land. Cersei was dressed in an all-black garb adorned with a thick, deep grey fur cloak that collected at the small of her back. The frost that lingered in air and on ground dismayed her and brought an unfamiliar chill that cut deep into her bones, but her prize was only yards away now.

As Euron’s ship was anchored against the stony pier, several Ironborn lowered themselves and walked toward her as more filed out. As they passed her, they stopped behind her to turn and face the sea where Euron himself tightly held the collar of Tyrion’s vest, his gait purposeful in its longer strides to stumble Tyrion’s.

A cloth had been bound around her brother’s face and stuffed into his mouth and his eye was healing from a recent wound. His hands were bound securely behind his back and there were tears among the sleeves of both arms. Tyrion never removed his glowering eyes off his sister.

When they were within earshot, Cersei took a few paces forward, queensguard loyally in stride with her. “I see you’ve still never learned to shut your mouth. I suppose the dragon slut must enjoy your slithering banter.”

“My queen,” Euron bowed, a wide, shining grin wide across his face, his posture representing that of pride. “As you requested.”

Cersei barely acknowledged him, his flaunting display disgusting her, but thought better of herself and endorsed an appreciative smile. “And a fine reward shall come your way.” Her hand consciously rubbed along the thick fabric covering her flattened stomach; she had been inherently grateful winter had arrived despite her dislike for it. It meant she could bulk up on her clothing and avoid questioning by Euron. “Did you find any trouble at Dragonstone?”

Tyrion remained still, teeth clenching so hard against the cloth that his jaw felt it would break. Euron considered Cersei a moment. “We lost nearly forty of our ships. The dragon queen was nimble and her dragons never far.” When Cersei’s face shifted into revulsion, he readjusted himself, his chest puffed boastfully. “But we breached the castle and killed hundreds of their own, including the queen’s golden-skinned adviser. It’s too bad; she was a beauty.” His tongue jutted out between his teeth as he chuckled roughly, deriving not a single reaction from anyone else.

“How did you get so lucky to capture my little brother?” Cersei challenged, her use of words not going unnoticed by Euron.

“Lucky?” He frowned, his grin fading, calculating on whether or not she was serious. “My men are highly skilled warriors, I will remind you. They went deep into the castle and the imp was found leading the beauty to safety. You truly thought you could save her, eh, little man?” Euron looked down at Tyrion, mocking. Tyrion still remained as still as if this were a ridiculous stunt that he would rather have had no part in. The only movement found on him was an involuntary, violent shiver of the cold piercing through his clothing.

A crooked smile was placed on Cersei’s face and she then commanded them all to get into the warm shelter of the Red Keep. In the cold conditions the walk felt as if it were a city away, each stride causing skin to come into contact with the bitterness that their clothing absorbed. As they approached the rising mud gate, Tyrion’s eyes traveled upward and he slowed to a near stop, his eyes becoming glassy at the sight before him: a young boy not older than five, pale as the sky, hanging barbarously by his neck which was crooked in a foul angle. He was quickly brought back into motion when Euron kicked him from behind, and Tyrion quickly averted his eyes and forced his legs to work again as the guards stepped aside to allow their entry. Gold cloaks sectioned off the roads and alleys and hoards of people that were crowded into them were trying to peer over to get a peek of the commotion.

Finally, they reached their destination. Once they entered the throne room, Cersei took her place among the throne and everyone else filed in behind her. The Mountain and Qyburn took their usual positions and Euron stood before Cersei with Tyrion still in his grasp.

“Remove all restraints,” Cersei said simply. Euron did as requested. When the gag had been freed, Tyrion exercised his jaw, opening and closing again until the ache subsided a little bit, but he never spoke. His wrists were unbound and he brought them forward, massaging where a purplish color bruised them.

An eyebrow perked on Cersei. “Are you certain this is my brother? Since arriving he has not tried to utter a single word, and now he is mute.”

“Would you expect otherwise from me?” Euron flashed his characteristic, knowing grin at her.

“I see no point in stalling. When is your queen planning to make her arrival? Once again she proves a disappointment in her punctuality,” Cersei said, but Tyrion ignored her, his eyes fixed at the foot of the throne.

“Answer me, dwarf,” Cersei demanded through gritted teeth. 

When he still yet failed to produce words, Euron swiftly kicked him in his back, to which Tyrion stumbled forward onto his hands. It took a few seconds with his head hanging low for Tyrion to attempt to get up. Slowly, he did. “Your queen is speaking to you,” Euron warned.

Straightening himself, the ache in his back throbbing, Tyrion’s weary eyes trailed up to finally meet his sister’s gaze. He held it for a long while. “She is not my queen,” he muttered, his voice flat and strained. “She is a repugnant, vile, stagnant...odious excuse for a human.”

The room stirred uncomfortably and Cersei stopped Euron with the motion of her hand as he was near ready to take her brother into his hands. A terrible, crooked grin formed on Cersei’s lips and without uttering a word, the Mountain began to descend the stairs.

“Ser Gregor, please remind Lord Tyrion of what happens when he addresses the rightful queen in the manner of which he chooses to speak,” she said easily as if requesting a simple favor.

Tyrion’s unbothered eyes watched as the armored beast of a man, his face a purple shadow in its helm, stood before him. Expecting death, Tyrion was morbidly surprised to find himself still conscious after his head impaled into the hard, stone floor beneath him as his legs gave out mid-impact. The excruciating pain that now radiated the circumference of his head down to his shoulders was so unbearable he nearly yelled, but managed to keep himself together. A large, swelling purple mass was rapidly developing beneath the crown of his hair and his vision was spotty. There were mumblings around him of voices, but he could not make sense of the words, and the next thing he knew he was being dragged off out of the throne room.

As his vision went from triple to double, the familiarity of the halls around him became a little clearer. For a moment it seemed they would be reaching the bed chambers until they took a wide left turn and descended a spiral stairway that led to the dungeons. It was darker, damper, and far colder beneath the ground, and when he was tossed inside his cell, he was left with nothing but the frozen stone around him, no comfort or warmth to be found.

He refused to sit for fear of the bitterness freezing him on impact, and he shivered uncontrollably. After a small while, a guard brought him a heavy cloak and a miniscule meal of a sliver of roast and potatoes and stale water. The guard mentioned it was only enough to keep him coherent, per Cersei’s orders. He had been so starved that he ravished the plate nearly whole, disregarding the idea that it very well could have been poisoned. He wrapped himself in the cloak which reeked of mildew and huddled into the corner of the cell. The pounding of his head was incessant and miserable, the slightest movement of his brow sending a shockwave of pain into his skull.

In his head he replayed the image of sweet Missandei’s death - it was all he ever thought about since he had been captured. A pure soul, as defenseless as he when he threw himself in front of her, but the dagger was well above his head when it pierced her chest. She had fallen hard onto the floor, her head clashing with the wall on her way down. Each day and night he cursed himself for being so inept in combat. He thought of Daenerys, how she would have gotten on once she became aware of Missandei’s death, of all of the dead bodies piled on one another as he was slipped secretly out of the castle. Cersei would surely have him killed once she used him for whatever it was she wanted him for, though he expected it would bring Daenerys and her armies to them quicker, and doubtless it would work.

Eventually, his eyes fell heavy once warmth crept in, drowsily grateful that the cloak was thick enough to hold in the heat. In his tortured thoughts, he fell into a heavy sleep.

\---

On day seven, Jon forced himself to get some air out of Dany’s chambers. He had fetched Jorah to take his place as he had been keen on lending a watchful eye and to watch over her as he promised he always would.

Jon felt a small twist of guilt in his stomach that Drogon and Rhaegal had gone long without their mother’s company, and he felt it was his duty now to participate in their well-being. Barrels of venison that had been left too long for human consumption had been discovered in the kitchens, and Jon took it upon himself to call upon a maid to have it brought to the great hall rather than let it go to waste. Over the last couple of days, he had engineered a makeshift sleigh from chopped wood and thin, unused leather hides. With the help of Tormund’s brute strength, they heaved the slightly soured meat onto the sleigh and bound it tightly with rope. 

Jon then bundled thickly in layers of furs and made his way to the cliffside that was frequently used as their resting area. Tormund had offered to assist him, but Jon insisted that it wouldn’t do well to upset them. The snow was ankle-high now and falling thickly, coating him in large patches of soft fluff. The dragons were yet to be seen, and he couldn’t hear them even over the echo the bay carried to land. Then he remembered that Dany once mentioned there were a few hidden caves on the island that produced hot springs, and the dragons would often seek shelter there. He recalled the one that he and Dany had stumbled upon the night he pledged the north to her, and he began to find his way there again, grunting which each pull of the sled behind him.

The snow was thick enough to steady his walk and create an easier transport of the venison, but treacherous when he reached the winding slope that wrapped around mountainous walls of rock and stone around him. He braced himself, one foot in front of the other, and when he was only feet away from his landing, the snow betrayed him and he slid down to the bottom in a graceful display as the sleigh bumped into him. Brushing himself off, he got back up onto his feet, his eyes squinting through the bitterness that threatened to freeze his eyeballs to his skull, and traveled down the long, narrow path. The sea just off to his side could no longer be found; ice had fallen thick over its surface and the snow blanketed it, creating an illusion of never ending land that reached far into the shroud of swirling mist. If one didn’t know better, it would have been easy to attempt a crossing before breaking into the ice below their feet.

Finally, to his left Jon turned and the beasts came into view, thick puffs of white steam escaping his mouth. The dim light produced just enough illumination, and their orange, fiery eyes blinked back at him curiously. Low rumbles emerged from their chests and shook through Jon’s bones as he stepped his way in and their noses inhaled deeply at what Jon had brought with him. He pulled the sleigh in fully and unbound the ropes, then created a far distance between himself and the dragons.

Each of them craned their thick necks toward the source before Drogon scorched the meats with fire. Jon’s arm instinctively rose to cover his face, the enclosure of the cave creating a whirlwind of overwhelming heat that made Jon sweat beneath his layers. When he looked again, relief flooded him when they began to feast. He hadn’t an inkling of what a dragon’s palate included, but he was appeased to see they took to the venison. They made quick work of it and once they licked their teeth clean, Jon apprehensively began to walk toward them. Rhaegal was closer and calmly arched his head and turned his large body to his rider, his snout coming into contact with Jon’s chest as he nudged at him. Jon grinned, using both hands to rub along each side beneath his eyes just as he liked. A shrill of delight sounded from him and soon Drogon had come around; Jon still never got over the overall girth of Drogon, even when Rhaegal looked impossibly enormous himself.

Drogon came within arm’s reach and a little more hesitantly, Jon reached up a gloved hand while keeping his other along Rhaegal’s face, hoping to the gods that they wouldn’t begin a sprawling fight in this cramped space over affection. Drogon dropped his head until his nostril met Jon’s palm, and he ran it along the front of his nose.

Sighing, Jon watched between both of them, aware that the lack of their mother’s contact was beginning to affect them. He continued to stroke their scaly hide and was taken aback when they laid themselves down, creating a full circle of dragon that enclosed Jon as they did so. Their heads remained elevated, seemingly taking comfort in fuller bellies and the warmth of the hot springs they lay upon. Jon nearly had to shake himself, wishing beyond anything that Daenerys could be here to witness this. He rotated halfway, then found a nook just along Rhaegal’s neck and slowly sat himself down, pleasantly surprised that the stone below was warm. Even if he wanted to leave, their bodies created a blockade that he was in no way eager to attempt to climb over.

Soon the dragons laid their heads down onto the ground and Jon’s eyes traveled along the length of their bodies. He absorbed each detail from the pattern of their scales, the different hues they each displayed, the talons of their feet, how their rib cages expanded so greatly with each breath. The heat that pierced Jon’s clothing from Rhaegal’s body selfishly made him wish to stay in their company for the rest of this long winter, and though he could not do that, he remained there for a prolonged amount of time as they slept. Long ago he had asked Dany if they ever rested, and this was the first he had ever seen them not in the skies or seeking their mother’s attention on the cliffs.

Hours had passed when they began to fuss. Jon hadn’t moved and his legs were numb, and though he was miles more comfortable in their presence, he didn’t wish to disturb a sleeping dragon, so he kept his movement limited. Slow and agile they got to their feet, likely to seek out their next meal in the frozen waters, and Jon followed behind them when they emerged from the cave. Their wings stretched out to their sides and Drogon was the first to take off, followed loyally by his brother. Jon watched until they were out of sight and began his trek back to the castle to his post at Dany’s side.

\---

Tyrion was summoned back into the throne room the afternoon following his imprisonment. His beard had grown thick and untidy and he had not been provided any clean clothing since his arrival.

“I am in your custody and you’re well aware I’m not a fighter. Why not just get it over with now? Your guard can snap my neck and you can be rid of me in mere seconds,” he mumbled up to Cersei who watched him pensively, her hand idly fidgeting with the pendant along her neck.

“That would be a mercy of which you don’t deserve. Not after you killed our father, after you betrayed your family for a Targaryen pretender,” Cersei said angrily, her voice low but carrying down the hall.

“You’re going to lose this war,” Tyrion replied matter-of-factly, his voice raw from the wear of the climate and dehydration. The lump on his head caused a purple coloring that seeped down his forehead. “The Golden Company boasts twenty-thousand men; how many ships does that amount to? Yet from what I’ve seen in my short time here, not one was to be found on arrival. Either they are keeping their distance from the city, which proves counter-intuitive, or they’ve abandoned your clause.”

Cersei adjusted herself to sit straighter, Euron standing beside Qyburn and watching quietly. When she shifted, Tyrion’s eyes briefly scanned her and came to note that there had been no swell in her belly when her gown folded inward. She was quick to position herself purposely so that it went out of sight, and his eyes flickered from Euron back to hers. “They refused to abide by my orders and as such broke their contract.”

Tyrion gave her a look to press her for more information, but none came. “You mean you requested some outlandish and despicable favor which disagreed with their morality, and now they are freed from your grasp. Not exactly a loss for them, then. I would have done just the same given you’ve had innocent children hanging by their necks at the gates.”

Euron craned his neck to look over to his queen, expecting her to call on the Mountain, but instead she regarded Tyrion. “They were collateral damage. It was not entirely a loss. They did not flee without bloodshed and some sunken ships.” This ignited a grin from Euron, and each time he did it Tyrion wished he had any friends left in the city who could assist him in permanently removing it from his smug face. Had Ser Bronn survived the loot train attack long ago, he would have gladly taken up the task.

Eyes narrowing, Tyrion cocked his head in thought.“You are uncharacteristically calm about your diminishing forces. Why is that?” He stared hard at her, and her lips twitched. Something occurred to him; the possibility...but he had to tread carefully if he wanted to survive to at least see Daenerys close in on the city. Instead, he kept his thoughts private.

“She doesn’t need anyone besides my fleet, imp,” Euron chimed.

Tyrion turned his attention to him. “You...do understand the army of the dead could storm the city at any time, yes? Even if that wasn’t the case, Daenerys has you far outnumbered and that’s not even including her dragons. How exactly do you expect to combat all of that with what little numbers you have in comparison?”

“We have other means, dear brother. You need not worry about that,” Cersei said swiftly.

Tyrion’s thoughts were all but confirmed now: undoubtedly she was prepared to ignite the remaining wildfire beneath the city, but whether as a counter attack or last resort he was unsure. All he knew was that his stomach twisted and his heart sank; there would be no way to send word to Dany in his restraint. Jaime had warned her some time ago of the possibility that the wildfire hadn’t been removed after Mad King Aerys had planted it, that should the dragons light the city afire it would ignite the stashes, but now Tyrion was concerned with an alternative approach that Cersei might yet use. She was without any remorse for having children brutalized, something she would have forbidden given her love for her own deceased children. With the pieces coming together, it only made sense that she accepted her own fate as well as the fate of the city and everyone in it. It became clear to him that history was going to repeat itself. His family name which was already mutually hated throughout the realm would soon be inked in history as the house who committed mass extermination in a city that boasted more than half a million human lives. This, in order for its deranged queen to be certain she had the final word.

And he was powerless to stop it.


	13. Part XIII - Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so huge (probably all will be from here on out) I couldn't think of a proper summary - ENJOY!

Come the twelfth day since the poisoning, Dany finally began showing new signs of life.

  
The days leading up to the weak swallow that had been noted at Dany’s throat had been nothing short of miserable. For the first time since the incident did the maester convey any optimism once the day arrived. He had been keeping Jon at bay by teetering on the edge of whether she would be brought out of it or not, and there was cautious hope that Jon held onto desperately when Maester Henly had brightened up after Dany was responding to his antidotes after all. Miniscule traces of water were being dripped into Dany’s mouth, as well as liquefied food through the gentle hand of Maester Henly to keep her bones strong and skin supple. Very gradually her skin began to revert back to its normal shade.

The ships whom had escorted the northmen back to Winterfell arrived two nights earlier and Grey Worm was debriefed on all that had happened since their departure. He had gone down to the dungeons where a small room had been adorned with candles and two Unsullied soldiers kept watch over where Missandei’s makeshift casket lay, and he mourned for her. Jorah had come to visit Dany on many occasions, and he kindly continued to offer to stay with her so that Jon could breathe some new air for a small while, but Jon politely refused and only left when necessary. Selfishly, he was aware that Jorah wanted time alone with her as well, and he would have happily given in, but was afraid the more he stepped away the greater the chance he would miss it when she woke.

Drogon and Rhaegal never veered far from their mother’s window unless they were needing to hunt. Several times Jon could hear the scraping and rustle of their enormous feet perching atop the castle somewhere above the bed chambers, shrieking hair-raising cries into the infinite sky. Their presence never ceased to astonish Jon and his skin covered in goose flesh when they cried. Ghost had managed to find his way into the room as well the day after the incident. As with the dragons, he only left to feed, but loyally returned to lay at Dany’s feet.

Varys had been with very little food or water; only enough to keep him alive until Daenerys returned to the living. Jon had begun considering handling his anticipated death by his own hands until then. He had to remind himself that while he wished nothing less than to see the Spider’s death come to fruition, he was not within power to give the order.

Two days later, as Jon had fallen into a light sleep in a stiff wooden chair beside Dany’s bed, he heard a faint whimper. Too quickly did he sit up, his head swirling wildly to catch up with what his eyes were digesting. Dany’s brow was furrowed as she tried to lift herself up into a sitting position and Jon hurried to her side to help her. Once she was propped securely, he ran to whip open the door and told one of the Unsullied guards to fetch the maester. Upon returning to Dany, her eyes were troubled in blinking through the brightness of the room in contrast to the dark they took comfort in. Eyes wide with disbelief, Jon brought his hands to hold her face and when she finally focused onto him, her frail body began to quiver, a small hand slowly running along his bearded face as if she didn’t believe he was real, that maybe she was dead and Jon as well.

“My love...how are you feeling?” He whispered, his breathing shallow and chest tight.

Before she could speak, her body lurched over the side of the bed and he was forced to lunge to catch her, the little contents of her stomach emptying onto the floor. Jon kept a safe hold on her, kneeling on to the bed while his other hand collected her hair away from her face. It was then that he took notice of how much thinner she looked, her sleep robe not quite as fitted to the curvature of her body as it normally was.

Maester Henly dashed into the room, leather satchel in his arms as he scoured the room until he came across a small wooden bowl. He placed it in Dany’s lap while Jon slowly re-positioned her against the headboard. Her head came to rest against the board, her eyes closing only for a brief time while her lungs collected air and tried to concentrate the nausea away.

“Yes, yes, this is exactly what I’d hoped for…” said Maester Henly with more of a squeak in his ragged voice than Jon could have believed.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked, collecting one of Dany’s hands into his lap.

A small smile crossed the maester’s wrinkled, thin lips as he began to dab a cloth against her face here and there, that had been scented with something potent; so strong it could probably wake the dead, Jon thought when it struck him. “The first antidote I provided the night she was poisoned was to reverse the toxins and if it was successful in time, would do so before it would reach beyond the stomach and into the bloodstream. The second antidote on the second day was to neutralize the acidity; both the poison and the anti-toxin can burn greatly and the organs can only handle so much before burning through the tissues. And finally, the last antidote that was given in larger increments by the daily acts as a stimulant for the body to purge it all. And that is what we have here, thank the gods. I feared I may have been too late.”

A long, slow breath of air that had been collected in Jon’s chest released through his lips. For a moment he closed his eyes and hung his head, unsure of what he did to deserve this outcome. When he looked up again, Dany’s eyes had fallen onto him, the faintest of smiles tugging one corner of her lips. He returned it happily, grateful that she would live to treasure him with such an image again. Maester Henly brought some warmed water to Dany in a chalice, delicately tipping it into her mouth as her muscles practiced the motion of swallowing again.

“Lord Snow has hardly left your side in nearly a fortnight, Your Grace. He has been most attentive to your every move,” cooed the maester affectionately, and Jon thought there was some playful jest mixed in there as well.

When the maester began to fiddle around his tools again, Dany appeared more lively in her eyes than even a few minutes ago when she turned again to see Jon. There were so many unsaid words passed between them that Jon nearly dismissed the maester until he thought better of himself. A tender squeeze as her fingers wrapped themselves around Jon’s hand confirmed she thought as much. After another round of vomit, she was cleared for now and Maester Henly quietly took his leave, promising his next visit in the near future after many thanks of gratitude from Jon.

The moment the door closed, Jon couldn’t move fast enough as he climbed fully onto the bed with her, leaning forward and placing soft kisses along all of her face. For the longest time his hands held along her jaw while he drowned in the violet hues of her eyes, still overcome by all that had happened. As the minutes passed, Dany regained a little bit more strength and eventually came to question Jon on the past two weeks.

“I should have thought better of it.” Her voice was raw and she brought her knees up toward her chest, the sensation of her muscles being stretched once again filling her with comfort.

“Not in your state of mind; you couldn’t have known it was laced with something even on a normal day,” Jon muttered. “The bastard waited until you were at your most vulnerable. He is a traitor and a coward.”

One million times over did Jon apologize to her for leaving her side when she was at her weakest, but repeatedly she assured him that the fault lay with the one who was locked away in the dungeons, the one who tried his damnedest to lay waste to all of her dreams and forfeit Jon’s anonymity to the entire realm. He knew he would eventually come around, but for now took solace in her forgiving nature.

“And Missandei? That was not a nightmare…?” Her voice trembled while Jon gently shook his head, his heart breaking further when the scant hopefulness had been dashed.

“There’s more,” Jon murmured, a sense of dread filling his belly. “Euron and his fleet took Tyrion captive aboard their ship. Jaime thinks he’ll be used for bait in King’s Landing until we arrive.”

Dany pursed her lips and could only nod; Jon understood everything was far too overwhelming for her, but didn’t wish her to find out through other means. He filled her in on how many had been lost, the successful sailing to and from Winterfell, who all had gathered to follow up on her health.

“I’m not so sure Cersei is patient enough to keep Tyrion alive long enough to see us to King’s Landing. Especially now that we’ve had this setback…” Dany muttered, eyes fixated on the foot of the bed.

“I’ve a feeling if anyone could talk his way out of his death, it would be Tyrion,” said Jon, the smallest hint of a smile on her lips then. “What would you like to do with Varys?”

“I will do as I promised I would.”

Jon stared at her briefly. “I could do it for you.” Dany broke her gaze to look into his darkened eyes. Long ago he had insinuated that he hated what he was good at, which was killing. He was masterfully skilled with a blade, at least one fortune he had as a raised bastard was he had been properly trained by the lords of Winterfell. Yet he sat here now, offering her a choice.

“I know that you would. But I must uphold my promise if I am to be seen as a queen of my word.” Her voice was sweet, and she brought herself closer to him. He adjusted himself so that his arm fell around her shoulders, pulling her in to his chest as they lay in a harmonious silence. Outside, Drogon and Rhaegal flew nearby, seemingly aware of their mother’s alertness.

A small hum of appreciation for them sounded through Dany’s chest as her eyes crinkled in a smile watching her children squeal for her. “They haven’t strayed since that night,” Jon muttered, his lips coming to rest at the top of her head as he joined her in watching the dragons fly eagerly past the windows.

“We’ve had some guests here waiting for you. They arrived a few days ago,” Jon said quietly, slow to break all of the news to her that she had missed. She pulled herself away from him so that she could see his face now. “Ser Harry Strickland of the Golden Company. He brought a few of his men with him, but he wished to wait for your recovery before telling us what he was here for. Don’t worry,” he reassured when the fear crossed her eyes. It was evident the night of Euron’s attack still plagued her. “They’ve been kind since arriving and Ser Jorah spoke rather highly of their captain. He used to fight with them.”

Dany’s eyes fell to the bed in thought. “I vaguely remember him mentioning that before, but it was so long ago. We must not keep them waiting any longer. Would you inform them that I’ll meet them in the throne room just as soon as I get my bearings?”

Jon studied her a long beat. “Are you certain? You won’t have the strength…”

“We cannot stall much longer; especially not with Tyrion in danger. I’ll need to make a fast recovery,” she said insistently, but Jon didn’t argue. The Night King grew closer to King’s Landing every day and their original plan had them halfway to the city by now. With that said, he didn’t want to rush Dany into battle when she was so vulnerable. With a nod, he gently kissed her forehead before doing as she asked.

\---

Dany was much slower than she would have wanted; the act of dressing was a task in and of itself. Her muscles had grown so frail since being bed-ridden that she almost had to remind herself how to use them again. Jon had sent a young, northern handmaiden to her room to assist her named Lyra; she had tended to Sansa before Winterfell had been sacked and ensured she was to be trusted.

Lyra was patient with her, allowing Dany to sit when she quickly became short of breath and lightheaded. Eventually, she slipped into her breeches, black and red scaled gown and lastly her boots. Lyra kindly whipped up a quick braiding of her hair so that she wouldn’t appear so feeble to her visitors. With an effort, she made her way to the throne room.

Upon entrance, she was greeted by all of the familiar faces she knew as well as the Golden Company members. So many faces had turned to see her eagerly, and though she wouldn’t show it now, her heart swelled at the relieved smiles on them. Grey Worm descended the stairs and the absence of Missandei’s post nearly made her collapse. He linked his arm with hers, her gait still stiff, but she forced herself to straighten her shoulders and lift her head. Her stomach swirled relentlessly and she fervently begged it to not mortify her in front of her company.

A path had been left for her in the middle straight to her seat. Once she took her place, she practiced releasing her winded breath and concentrated on those in front of her. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Jon who had been mixed in with everyone, and she nodded at him for him to join her. He looked back at her, perplexed, and eyes set on him as he passed through his friends and ascended the stairs until he took the empty space where Missandei once stood. Dany smiled at him briefly, and he collected his hands before him before drawing his attention to everyone below, having not expected this turn.

“Ser Harry, if you wouldn’t mind stepping closer as my voice hasn’t quite returned to form just yet,” she requested kindly.

Harry and his men did so and they bowed in her presence as he introduced himself and the others beside him. “We are obliged to you, Queen Daenerys, for giving your time when you’ve only just begun mending.”

Dany bowed her head a touch, a friendly smile accompanying her. “And I to you for being so patient with me in my absence. Now, shall we begin?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Harry said. “As you well know we were, until recently, contracted to serve under Cersei Lannister. More than a fortnight ago, she began making unreasonable requests of us; requests that were not established in our written agreement.”

“What kind of requests?” Dany questioned before Harry could continue.

His face gave himself away for just a second, contorting to express a sadness she wouldn’t have expected of a guest on an initial encounter. It humanized him, but she feared what he would say. “There is a famine growing rapidly in the city, and its inhabitants are highly aware of who is responsible. Cersei refuses to negotiate with other houses who may have food to spare, though it is diminishing greatly now with winter arriving. The small folk are dying like flies, Your Grace, and thus an uprising has begun. There are, at minimum, half a million civilians and refugees seeking shelter and space is limited, so you can imagine how scarce food became. As people starved to death, more and more came forward to beg Cersei to aid them. When she continually denied their pleas, they grew angry with her and took it upon themselves to become violent.” Harry swallowed, his eyes breaking away momentarily before returning to Dany, whose eyes were narrowed in disgust by the news that was unfolding.

“A particular girl, barely a woman, was late with child and had already two sons, all in poor condition,” he continued. The room was so silent that the wind outside sounded off the interior walls. “Nora was her name, and with her she brought a band of others she had befriended in their time of urgency, but those friends threw stones and struck Cersei. She then ordered for us to execute all who had been present, and I later approached Cersei to dissent her order as we were instructed to defend the city from you and your armies, Your Grace.”

By now Dany could read on his face that he was uncomfortable addressing her as a former foe. “You speak with the notion of this mother and her children as former figures. Did you execute them after all?”

Harry swallowed again, his throat shifting in the shadow as he did so. “No, Your Grace. After Cersei commanded I do as she asked, I sought out Nora and gave her enough money to flee the city with her boys and her friends, promising she would be guarded by men of my own to see them safely out of the city limits. After Euron sailed for Dragonstone that night, we boarded our flagship to make headway to meet you, Your Grace...but the sound of the murder of Nora and all the others that carried over the bay could not be mistaken even out at sea. Cersei was unaware of my plan to sail here, but by now she will have noticed my absence. The rest of my fleet will have left only a few days after me and will be a couple leagues from here awaiting my jurisdiction.”

Dany’s chest was tight and her heart raced, trying to digest the information handed to her, her jaw clenched tight at the thought of Cersei’s callous authority that Dany wanted nothing more than to eradicate. Jon’s head hung and he looked down at his feet when the details of what had happened were established. It was hard to stomach that Cersei held such power over the seven kingdoms.

“I see,” Dany croaked, moving to sit straighter. “I am sorry to hear of your friends, and even more sorry to those who suffer while Cersei falls further into madness. But, Ser Harry, this still does not explain why you are here.”

“Of course, Your Grace; our purpose would only hold value if you had all of the information in your hands,” Harry explained kindly, then looked between his men briefly. “It’s...not typical that we seek work as much anymore, now that we’ve become an established brotherhood. But we’ve come to ask you the favor of allowing us to fight for you, Your Grace; to eradicate the tyranny that holds the crown which grows more heinous with each passing day. To be rid of this army of the dead that threatens to shroud the world in an endless winter and death, if tales be true. If you’ll have us, we would be honored to join our forces with yours and reconstruct that monarchy to a Targaryen rule. A monarchy that will bring the end of suffering, of war, and, should I dare wish it, a resemblance of peace in the realm.”

There was a subtle murmuring amongst everyone in the room; Jon and Dany were astounded to silence at the proposal. Stunned, Dany had to force herself to act, but her throat thickened. She looked over to Jon, who returned the acknowledgement and then she looked at Harry again. “It would be foolish of me to deny your appeal, Ser Harry. In fact, I wish nothing more than to pledge an oath to the Golden Company right here and now, given that we’ve lost so many of our own forces. However…” Dany’s eyes studied all of the faces before her, to each face that had suffered incessantly in all of their individual ways, and now she feared she would face revolt if she did not accept.

She recollected herself and her expression reverted to her stoic mask. Jon watched her with anticipation, slightly taken aback that she hadn’t leapt at the chance to acquire Harry’s twenty-thousand forces. “The uncertainty lies with the expense, Ser Harry, bereaved as I am to admit it. We are only just surviving now and though I’m unfamiliar with your fees, I can assure you that the debt could not be paid as we sit here now.”

Dany expected the hum of complaints that filled the room, though none dared to air their grievances loud enough for her to hear the words. Harry smiled solemnly, lowering his head. As he opened his mouth to speak, there was a movement and separation of the crowd as Sansa stepped within view. Jon watched her, a curious frown creasing his brow. Sansa collected her hands before her and looked up at Dany and Jon before turning her attention to Harry. Dany observed her, intrigued, and also slightly afraid of what may unfurl.

“Ser Harry; my name is Sansa Stark.” Harry bowed politely before she continued. Sansa stood straight and proper as she addressed him. “As Lady of Winterfell and as the one who now oversees the Northern kingdoms’ individual funds, I would offer double your required fees to acquire your army. If I’m being completely honest, I would die indebted to the Golden Company if it meant witnessing Cersei’s downfall, and I would happily see to it that Daenerys takes her rightful place as queen.”

A much louder response erupted from the crowd and Harry grinned appreciatively at her. Dany’s expression read nothing short of an overwhelming speechlessness, astonished at Sansa’s gesture. Jon gazed at his sister, his face softened considerably as his eyes met Dany’s with silent awe.

“There is one obvious obstacle, however,” Sansa continued, bringing her hands to rest at the small of her back. “Our payment would not be able to be fulfilled until after the war is won and we return to Winterfell. We’ve sent a couple thousand northerners back to begin restoring the castle; you may have heard it was ambushed by the Night King’s army. That in itself will require monetary expense. If you agree to our joint terms, may I suggest a written agreement with several witnesses? If any of us don’t survive this war, you would have the word of everyone in this room that your payment is received as promptly as possible.”

Harry considered this a moment and for a few minutes, convened privately with his men while they discussed their options. When they returned from their analysis, Harry looked between Dany and Sansa. “If this were any other proposition that didn’t mean life or death of the entire continent, we would see ourselves packing our bags and leaving this instant. But with the circumstances and from what we endured in just the little time under Cersei’s reign...we’ve decided to accept your offer.”

A withheld sigh of relief stretched throughout the entirety of the room and everyone visibly relaxed. Sansa looked over her shoulder to Jon and Dany who, without words, silently applauded her initiative and Sansa bowed her head in return.

Jon peered into the crowd until he found the subject he was looking for. “Sam,” he called out, to which Sam flinched when he heard his name punctuating the rumbles of discussion, reddening. “Will you fetch some parchment?”

“Y-y-yes, of course,” Sam said, hobbling his way through the crowd and out to the library.

Jon looked toward Dany, who was idly caressing her abdomen where the sourness was rearing again. “Do you need to rest?” He asked quietly, crouching to her side now.

Her mouth formed an ‘o’ shape as she closed her eyes to concentrate the nausea away. “Once we’re done; I’m afraid I won’t last beyond my signature.”

When Sam returned with paper and quill, Harry detailed their agreement in full and was the first to sign his name alongside his paymaster. Dany followed, as did Sansa.

“Ser Harry, I’d like to offer my deepest gratitude for considering all of us and our survival, and for being so gracious in not only your time spent here, but your patience with our own terms,” Dany announced once the room settled and Harry’s paymaster secured the parchment into a leather casing at his hip. Sansa collected the second copy to keep. “While we don’t have an overabundance of food now that we’ve had to create measures, I’d like to invite you all to a small feast this evening. I know you’ve been held captive in your chambers given recent circumstances here, but I’d like to relinquish all mistrust and grant you full reign of the castle.”

Harry smiled with delight and bowed his head. “We thank you, Your Grace, and it is our greatest pleasure to serve you. While we would be glad to dine with you tonight, I’m afraid we will need to depart soon thereafter to seek out the remainder of our fleet. They will have docked in Blackwater Bay, between here and Driftmark. From there we have enough supply to get us by for a small while. Do you know when you expect to depart for King’s Landing?”

Dany looked over at Jon, who now straightened himself further. “With Queen Daenerys’s recovery to consider, it may still be a while yet, assuming she fully recuperates.”

“I will,” Dany sounded confidently, her eyes falling to Harry again. “If it will aid you further, you’re more than welcome to dock your ships here and take refuge within the warmth of the castle walls. It would not be a burden to do so and it’s far too dangerous to linger out there now. If your fleet is as close as Driftmark, it would be a day’s ride here if the winds are kind.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I will inform them of your kind gesture and perhaps you will see us sooner rather than later. Upon our return we can discuss how best to approach King’s Landing.” They exchanged their dismissals as Harry and his men made their way freely back to their chambers. Dany got to her feet once they were out of sight and gradually made her way down the steps, Jon close behind her and ready to catch her at a moments notice. When Dany reached the flat landing, Sansa and Arya had broken from their conversation to acknowledge her and without hesitation, Dany pulled Sansa into a friendly hug.

For a moment Sansa was dazed by the embrace, but came to reciprocate and saw that Jon looked far more at ease with the two ladies in close quarters than he would have weeks ago. Dany pulled apart and kept a hand on Sansa’s arm, her face delicate. “I’m indebted to you for a long, long time, Lady Sansa. Truly. Thank you.”

A wide smile stretched across Sansa’s face then. “It’s the very least I - we - could do for all you’ve done for us. If it weren’t for you we wouldn’t even be where we are now. We owe you a lifetime of gratitude.”

The ladies shared a mutual understanding which warmed Dany greatly, but quickly had to make her excuses as her belly began to protest yet again. Jon followed at her heels, assisting her back to her chambers. When they departed it looked as if many more people wanted to stop her to applaud their achievements, but the strain in her belly made any further interaction impossible.

\---

By the following morning, Harry and his men boarded their ship in the wee hours of the morning prior to anyone waking. Dany had felt too ill to join them for the supper the last evening, and she had to reserve her energy for Varys’s execution.

Dany, Jon and Jorah assembled out into the frigid air along the frozen beach. She didn’t wish to make an event out of it; it felt vulgar to do so even given the situation at hand. She wasn’t so much proud of her decision; in fact she was sorely disappointed that her suspicions of Varys had materialized at all.

Dothraki riders held Varys captive in their muscled hands as they approached, Jon and Jorah at either side of Dany as her body was still adjusting to being on her feet again. The dragons flew close overhead in wide figures of eight, squalling at one another. Dany’s face hardened when she came further into view. Jon and Jorah released their grips on her and took a couple of steps back.

“Lord Varys. Do you wish to grace us with any parting words?” It had been many moons since Jon had seen her face look as it did now, and it captivated him knowing the fire that coursed through her blood. He felt it too; part of him wished it was him who could grant vengeance on her behalf.

“Only that it makes no matter what is about to happen; my raven will have been delivered to the one who required it most. A guest will arrive on your shores soon enough, and will come bearing a gift for the one true heir of the seven kingdoms. Perhaps we will meet again in the after life, and you can thank me then.” Varys’s voice was dry and his skin hung looser against his bones than last he had been seen. Dany’s jaw clenched, never removing her eyes from him as a large gust of heavy wind roared up behind them. Drogon seethed, his pupils thin and menacing as he eyed his victim. His body hovered above them, a low rumble collecting in his chest as he slowly grew closer. Rhaegal soon came to land after, finding a spot behind Jon’s other shoulder. Varys watched, and for once fear was written on his face when his eyes met the dragon’s.

“Lord Varys. I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons sentence you to die. Dracarys.” Drogon’s neck stretched and his mouth opened to a gaping black hole that was quickly glowing with orange, and in an instant flame came billowing out of his mouth as Varys crumbled before them without a sound.

\---

As they came upon the hall leading to the chambers, Dany excused herself for a little while, reassuring Jon and Jorah that she would be fine. They were to assemble in the Chamber of the Painted Table, but her abdomen began to disagree with her. When she crossed the threshold of her room, she wretched onto the floor, her eyes watering from the force and her muscles aching in the strain. Leaning against the inner wall, she gently closed the door behind her while she searched for anything to clear the mess. In doing so, another small round dribbled out of her mouth, mostly clear bile as she had been sluggish in gaining her appetite back. She groaned, mentally reminding herself to seek out Maester Henly and beg him to concoct something to stop the vomiting.

When she was certain her stomach settled, she wiped up the floor before sitting at the edge of her bed. Her frame trembled in the aftermath, and she practiced steady breathing until she was still again. By habit she turned her head over her shoulder to ask Missandei the favor of drawing her a warm bath and staying for a friendly chat, but the realization struck that her friend was no longer here, and she allowed herself to grieve privately.

\---

“There are nearly one hundred White Walkers, all of whom were created by the Night King. His army has grown to over one hundred and fifty thousand; he is just east of Holdfast, so by my calculation I gather he will descend upon King’s Landing in a fortnight,” Bran established as the rest convened together.

“That still leaves us near forty-thousand short,” Jon grumbled in frustration, scratching his temple in thought. “We’ll need to allow at least three days for our ships and horses before we reach the city. Possibly more given the climate as Ser Harry mentioned there were high tides on his travels.”

Jon shifted the peg of the Night King to just below the Isle of Faces on the map board. “The Night King will be the hardest to reach when he arrives, and the lack of visibility won’t make it any easier,” Jon said.

“But you will have cloud coverage to the benefit of Daenerys. Euron’s fleet is almost unbeatable by sea, but they seemed to struggle when they sieged the castle. Now we have the Golden Company on our side which outranks Euron in number,” said Jaime thoughtfully.

Jon nodded, his eyes scrambling over the pieces. A makeshift carving of wood had been painted with the sigil of the Golden Company: a red arrow that boasted several skulls bound to its arrowhead. He shifted the marker to the sea opposite the Iron Fleet.

Sometime in the middle of discussion, Dany walked in; her hair had been brushed but loose, and her eyes were swollen, but she joined them. Everyone had turned to acknowledge her presence, wordlessly clearing a path for her so that she was at the other end of the table from Jon.

“The scorpions that they will use have limited range. They can pivot a full circle, but their size is too great and cannot launch straight upward,” Jaime continued, crossing his arms.

There was a silence and Jon moved his eyes to the map where he slid the second dragon peg beside Dany’s, finding it almost amusing at the double meaning behind him moving the sigil that represented his house by right unbeknownst to most everyone else.

“You can’t,” Arya protested. “We’ll need you on the ground.”

Jon kept his eyes cast down. “We need as much defense in the skies as we do on the ground, and Daenerys shouldn’t be up there alone. We’ll have plenty of commanders who can lead our forces without me there.” He sighed and the room fell silent. Dany eyed him. “With the help of the Golden Company we will destroy Euron’s fleet and if we’re successful, take cover in the clouds and burn all ballistas lining the castle walls. What Ser Jaime says about the scorpions works in our favor; we can attack from directly above and destroy them from there without risk of the dragons being injured or killed if we move fast enough. That way, we can enclose the city and hope for a surrender, convince her remaining army that our common enemy will move in on the city at any time and it would be useless to fight amongst ourselves at that point.”

“And if they refuse?” Dany asked quietly.

He considered this for a second, eyes traveling to look up at her then. “Then we wait. You and I will find somewhere well-hidden so we can get a better vantage point when Viserion flies in. If Cersei still resists…” Jon shook his head, not wanting to say the words out loud, that it would become every man for himself. He wished Tyrion had been with them then; he knew the city anatomy better than anyone.

Jaime was solemn in thought; most eyes had fallen to the table below as if no one else dared to speak in Dany’s mournful company. “She will confine Tyrion to the Red Keep. If he doesn’t find a way to release himself from her possession, he’ll likely be dead before we set foot in the city. She has wanted him dead since killing our father, and he has no love for her. His mouth will either spare him or get him killed.”

Jon rubbed his forehead, feeling an ache approaching at his temples.

“I will not let Cersei lay a finger on him,” Dany warned, her face stern now. “We need to get him out of there before she gets bored of her game and does what she wants with him. I cannot have another person I care for die by her hand.”

“That’s exactly what she wants us to do,” Jon said gently. “We aren’t quite ready just yet; Gendry has nearly completed the remaining armor and weaponry. We can’t risk throwing you and the dragons onto the battlefield without it, and not while you’re still recovering. We just need a little more time.” Dany considered him briefly before Arya’s voice interjected.

“I’ll go,” she said with tenacity. This caused Jon to whip his head around to gawk at her.

“I’m not going to let you go to King’s Landing alone. You’ll be killed before you even reach the gates, no matter if by land or sea,” he retorted firmly.

“I would never ask that of you,” Dany insisted, but a hint of admiration for the girl’s courage went unmasked.

“Aye, I have some unfinished business there myself.” The Hound stood from the darkness of the corner of the room, his presence nearly forgotten, causing a flurry of mixed confusion between everyone at the change of plan. Jon listened in disbelief at what was unfolding.

“I will go. None of you will get within five leagues of King’s Landing without being scouted. I can lead you through an alternate path and possibly get you into the city, but after that I cannot guarantee your safety. I’ll use this as my opportunity to attempt a final armistice.” Jaime’s eyes darted between each face in the room.

A loud snort erupted from the Hound just then. “You’re going to try to make peace with the woman who used wildfire to blow up the Sept of Baelor, as her son jumped to his death and before his body was cold she crowned herself as Queen?” A loud guffaw echoed from his mouth, but not many reacted. Arya smirked just slightly in amusement.

Jaime looked toward Dany expectantly, ignoring the Hound’s jest. “Your Grace, with your consent, we can move forward as early as tomorrow. We’ll need a head start if we are to go around the King’s Road without being seen. It will also give us enough time to get there before the rest of you, if not crossing paths.”

Jon sighed, his eyes landing on Arya, but she was also waiting for Dany’s response. “At the very least take some of the northmen with you,” Jon pleaded.

“No, it will only draw more attention and slow us down. The fewer the better,” Arya defended, and Jon knew he would not win.

Dany was conflicted; it was apparent that her clouded judgement was making the decision more difficult. Her hand subconsciously came to rest at her lower abdomen where the discomfort was stirring again. Her face only betrayed her for a brief second, but Jon knew how to read her even when she tried to disguise it. “When we bring our armies south, undoubtedly Cersei will be forced to act fast. I fear in that regard she will be rid of Tyrion long before we could breach the Red Keep. If the dead meet us there soon after, it will be far too chaotic and we’ll be forced to turn our attention to them, possibly ensuring Tyrion’s death. Perhaps a small raid will prove more effective and less threatening to guarantee his survival.” Slowly, she drew in a breath and looked into the eyes of the brave warriors who she may never see again after dawn. “You have my permission.”

\---

The council had drained Dany of what little strength she had, and after some time in her chambers, she had called upon Lyra again, who did her the favor of heating up some water so that she could soak to her heart’s content. Once her tub was filled, she disrobed and stepped into the water, grateful that it was as scorching as she’d hoped. At the ledge beside the tub, she dropped in a few scented oils and used her hand to stir it around, then came to fully relax while her nose inhaled the aroma.

Immediately her muscles loosened, but her mind refused to allow her to forget that she had nearly been murdered even just for a few minutes. It was the third time in her life just by poisoning alone, and she knew she would have to come to understand it would never end so long as she was queen. There would always be someone who despised the one that sat on the throne. She would need to ensure that everyone within her council and her guard, everyone that surrounded her day and night, were only those she could put her trust in without question once she was crowned.

To herself, she thought about how foolish she was to have accepted Varys as an adviser. One thought led to another, about Varys’s mysterious warning of an unnamed guest arriving to the island. Whomever it was would be doing so by ship, and she’d hoped it wasn’t going to be another siege of the castle, but Varys’s tone implied something in favor of the one he believed in most - Jon. At least in that regard, maybe it meant something useful.

Once the water began to cool and she washed herself, Dany dried off and slid a woolen robe on, brushing out the snarls that had gathered in her hair. Then she began the task of attempting to properly braid her hair for the first time since Missandei’s death, but to no satisfaction. Again and again she twisted and turned her tresses only to gently claw her fingers through them to restart. On her last attempt, she was interrupted by a knock on her door. Half expecting Jon, she called on her guest to enter, taken aback when Sansa appeared before her.

“Lady Sansa,” she acknowledged, her voice evident in its unusual high pitch in her surprise, her hands falling away from her hair. A gentle smile was on Sansa’s face.

“Your Grace. Am I disturbing you?” Dany shook her head and pulled over a chair nearer to her, and gestured for Sansa to join her. The use of Dany’s title on Sansa’s lips was still a foreign sound, but she didn’t show it. In Sansa’s arms was a thick bundle of material of some sort, though she couldn’t quite make it out.

“What brings you here?” Dany asked politely, folding her hands in her lap.

Sansa looked down at the bundle she carried before she began to unravel it slowly. “I understand that Gendry is already crafting together armor for you, but…I’ve had quite a lot of time on my hands as of late.” She stood to her feet, Dany only now realizing just how tall the girl was, and the material unraveled from Sansa’s hands to her knees.

Dany gazed in awe: the asymmetrical shaping of the cloak was not unlike Arya’s. It was of wool material - a favorite of the North for their brutal winters, Dany had observed - and was primarily black and blended gradually into a deep maroon toward the bottom. Adorning it were textured dragon scales which adopted the same color graduation as the base of the cloak.

“I made something similar for Jon,” Sansa said almost shyly. Dany had been unable to take her eyes off of the craftsmanship, but more than that she was stunned at such a gesture. The silence that followed brought Dany back to reality hoping it hadn’t crossed into a rude territory.

“Lady Sansa, I don’t know how to properly thank you...I’m speechless,” Dany cooed breathlessly, reaching a hand out to touch the magnificent piece.

Sansa smiled, then laid the cloak out at the end of Dany’s bed before turning her attention back to her. “Keep my brother on his toes. That’s how you can thank me,” she grinned when Dany released a small chuckle. Her energy hadn’t quite returned as much as she’d hoped. “He loves you more than anything in this world. I can tell you that I don’t even think I remember a time before now that he smiled so much or so genuinely. Maybe I saw some of it when his family returned to him, but it was obvious a piece of that was still missing.”

Dany shook her head slowly, finding herself slow to comprehend Sansa’s kind words; it was causing a pleasant ache in her heart. “I think I’ve kept him on his toes so much he has nearly fallen over.”

This initiated a unanimous snicker between them, and then Sansa briefly regarded Dany’s hair, a partial leftover braid near her crown. “Would you like me to help you with that?” She offered, gesturing to the silver locks. The timidness of her voice told Dany that she feared she would be crossing an invisible line, as if suggesting she could replace Missandei.

Dany felt she would blush at any moment - she relied on Missandei’s skilled hands so much that she hadn’t thought to teach herself how to much tame her own hair. “I would love that.”

Sansa took her place behind Dany’s chair, finding her horsehair brush and gently began combing through the silky, silver mane.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think recently, and I’d like to formally apologize for my arrogance. I got caught up in what I’d only heard about you through other means and that was unfair,” Sansa explained. “But I didn’t want to part ways before making amends once you leave for King’s Landing.”

Dany’s brows raised. “I certainly appreciate the gesture and I hold no grudges. I would love nothing more than to stand on favorable terms with you, if not friendship.” Finally, a peaceful silence filled the room, nothing to be heard except the occasional dragon and crackling of her fire.

“Do you suppose we will come out of this war alive?” Dany wondered quietly, her eyes feeling heavy with each stroke of the brush.

“If I’m being honest...I think it could go either way. My fear is fatigue will set in if King’s Landing is sacked, especially since everyone will have to fight with the force of three men given all that we’ve lost. At least now it isn’t as much of a deficit; wars have been won at greater odds as Jon has reminded me before. But this is different. And if the dead arrive right away, there will not be time for recuperation. My hope is that Cersei is taken care of long before the Night King reaches the city, and maybe then there will be a time for rest and whatever armies she has left will join together against them,” Sansa said in thought, combing through the last section of hair before she began working braids into them.

“Ser Jaime believes she may come around being with child. I’m not so sure; her reluctance has proven otherwise. You know her better than I; what would you expect of her?” Dany asked, hand caressing at her stomach.

Sansa pinned a braid to Dany’s head before working on another. “She’s not going to cooperate. I lived with her for far too long; she’s a master manipulator, but her flaw is that she often acts on impulse. Do you realize that Arya’s main objective is to kill her? She will free Tyrion with the help of the others, and then she plans to kill Cersei on her own.”

If Dany could, she would have turned to confirm that Sansa was telling the truth, but there had been no reason to disbelieve her. “It seems us women all share a common wish to see Cersei gone. Jon had told me that Arya had learned a skill that involved...wearing faces? It sounds absurd, but then again there are two dragons just outside these walls and an army of dead men by the thousands about to descend on us all.”

With a small chuckle, Sansa nodded even though Dany couldn’t see her. “I was horrified when I found out. We had a bit of a falling out, and I had gone to her room and found these faces under her bed. It’s...I don’t exactly have any words to describe it. But she is highly skilled, and I wouldn’t believe anyone else could lead a raid as she is now.”

Dany smiled gingerly. “Missandei was the closest I ever had to a sister; finally, a faithful adviser and friend who didn’t use me for her own gain and I could have genuine conversation with, without fear of judgement.”

“I may have a sister, but our relationship was never like that,” Sansa explained patiently, her hands weaving through soft hair. “We hated each other up until we were separated at Winterfell. When we met again years later, in our home, it was strained for a while. We started and ended on bad terms, but found each other and had to start anew and fill in the gaps of all the years in-between. I know you’ve not had family in your life for quite some time, Your Grace...but sometimes it’s not as it seems. Including me and Jon. I still feel horrible for how I treated him as children.”

Dany relaxed, resting her chin on her hands at the spine of the chair. “But what is life if we don’t grow with it? I had only my brother until my first husband killed him for threatening to take my life and my unborn child with it. But after him, traitors and betrayers unending. I would take a broken, mended relationship with a sister any time if it meant being without such horrible company. Your brother is my sweet boy from the North now, but we did not see eye to eye for a long time. He is stubborn to his core, but I suppose that makes for a great leader. It’s no wonder to me why he was pronounced King in the North despite having no legitimate claim to the northmen’s awareness.”

Sansa paused a moment in consideration, moving down the middle of Dany’s tresses now. “I do believe he would make for a wonderful king, but I also know he is most reluctant to carry that responsibility. It was the same when he was named Lord Commander in the Night’s Watch, and again when we reclaimed Winterfell and he was named king. In the perspective of a bastard, and in the reality of the world we live in, he should be the least likely to hold such titles, but his people are loyal to him and as you said, are blind to what we know he has inherited. They would die for him just as he died for them. I know that I can get under his skin, but I truly believe he handles the burden incredibly well. Eventually I might learn to take a step back and shut my mouth, but I’d found value in the scheming of my closest advisors at the time. It helped me read and understand ulterior intentions. Unfortunately, I brought that home with me and it took a few stern words from Jon to help ground me again.”

Dany’s face shifted to express a look of empathy. “We have much more in common than you or I originally believed, Lady Sansa. If it wasn’t your voice just now, I would have thought it was my own speaking to me. We’ve both survived abusive men and manipulative women, and now here we are. But we still have the last war, and that is a daunting task.”

When Sansa knotted the ends of Dany’s long braid, she stepped around and Dany held up a piece of a glass mirror, and was taken away by her work.

“I added a bit of the Northern braids at the middle; that’s mostly all I know, but I hope I was able to mimic Missandei’s techniques as well,” Sansa gestured with her hand at the twists of the braids.

“It’s beautiful; thank you,” Dany gushed, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to cry at the thought of Missandei not being the one over her shoulder, but she suppressed her feelings. Suddenly, she dropped the glass as it shattered onto the stone floor, her eyes squeezing shut while she did her best to hold it back, but soon she was expelling vomit again.

Startled, Sansa’s mouth fell open and immediately she walked Dany over to her bed, maneuvering around the tiny glistening shards spread amongst the floor.

“I’ll go fetch someone to clear this away,” Sansa announced as Dany nodded and rested her head against the headboard behind her, face strained with fear that her throat would be singed soon again.

As Sansa opened the door in haste, she collided with Jon when she turned around the corner and he caught her arms to steady her. Ghost was at his side and whimpered at the impact. Jon’s eyes darted between her and Dany’s open door and he stared in confusion.

“She’s still not entirely well, will you stay with her while I go find Lyra?” Before Jon could even open his mouth to respond, she brushed past him and he resumed forward. When he stepped in, he took notice of the floor in the middle of the room and then brought his eyes up to Dany.

“Sansa tells me you’re still ill,” he said as he took a place at her bedside. His eyes trailed along her peaked coloring to the braids weaved into her hair and he came to understand why Sansa had been here, to remedy their strained relationship. Ghost gracefully leapt up onto the furs and circled until he found a nook beside Dany’s feet.

“The maester told me this would have stopped by now,” she said quietly, stretching her hand down to bury them in the wolf’s thick fur. “How do you feel about Arya leaving?”

Sighing, Jon averted his eyes and scratched Ghost’s ear while his red piercing eyes threatened to close. “There’s nothing I can do to stop her. She’s no longer a child.” A friendly, sad smile tugged the corner of his lip.

“No, she’s not.” Dany’s eyes were soft. “And there’s nobody more capable in handling their own than her. I believe she could take the city herself if she really wanted to.”

Amused, Jon knew he couldn’t deny it. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, but sat back when Lyra stepped in, forgetting the courtesy of knocking in her frantic endeavor. Ghost’s eyes shot open and raised his hackles, but backed off when Jon growled at him to behave. Shyly and with fear in her eyes, Lyra bowed awkwardly before she thoroughly cleaned the floor and left without a word.

Jon and Dany shared a mutual look just before a knock arrived on her door; a revolving door tonight, it seemed. When Dany called for them to enter, Sam and Bran came into view, Sam brandishing a heartening toothy grin while Bran remained indifferent, but acknowledged the situation before him.

“Your Grace,” Sam bowed his head awkwardly as he positioned Bran to face them. Jon had nearly forgotten his place in sharing Dany’s bed, but by now gave himself away. At any rate, one of them was his best friend and the other more than likely already had an inclination of he and Dany’s relationship before even they did.

Sam cleared his throat, stepping aside and forward, hands kneading one another nervously before him. “Jon, you’ll remember that Bran mentioned he...we, had a lot to share with you both.”

Nodding, Jon coerced him to continue, Dany doing her best to sit up straighter but her body not yet accepting her change in position.

“Well...where shall we begin?” A trembled laugh emitted from Sam’s mouth before he looked over his shoulder to Bran, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of the pair in the bed.

“The Night King is a greenseer, just as I am. It is how he knows where to be at just the right moment, just as he was at Eastwatch by the Sea and thus came to possess Viserion. He has a purpose. Beyond a never-ending winter, there is something he desires. Someone.”

The silence made Jon waver in his seat, and a swirl of unease filled Dany’s stomach, though she was unsure of the cause this time.

“Your child,” Bran said unflinching. The words seemed to linger in the air and time stopped. Dany’s breath hitched in her chest and her hand impulsively held her abdomen. Her heart was thumping hard in her chest, palpitating in its anxiety. Jon slid off the bed and walked toward the men, his eyes wide and unsure.

“What child?” Jon questioned shakily, each passing second without answers a punch in his gut.

“Your Grace, can you recall when you had your last moon blood?” Bran asked directly. Dany felt she should have been familiar with his blunt manner of speech, but discussing a private matter such as this still shook her.

It took her longer than she realized to remember. “I suppose it’s been a few weeks...since it should have arrived.” Saying it out loud brought on a whole new surge of realization and hope that she instantly squashed. It was impossible and she refused to allow herself to favor the thought of a child. The lack of her moon blood was likely due to her body’s reaction to pressures of preparing for war and all that came with it, or so she tried to justify. “I am barren. I cannot bear children.”

Sam smiled at Jon with hopeful eyes before turning toward Dany. “You can, Your Grace, and you will. Bran has seen it himself.”

Jon placed one hand on his hip and the other pinched his eyes shut, trying to comprehend it. Now his head truly ached. A child...his child...their child. He would be a father, and she a mother.

“It’s still very early yet,” Bran said. “But the maester can confirm it for you now, if you wish.”

“But the poison…?” Jon began, his tongue becoming stuck in his mouth.

“Would have killed the fetus by now if it had been successful. Maester Henly was punctual with his intervention,” assured Sam. No one spoke for a while, the news weighing heavily on their minds. It was hard enough for Dany and Jon to fathom it, never mind that the child was pined for by the Night King.

“But...it would be months until the child would be born. What exactly does the Night King plan to do should he win this war?” Dany asked quietly, her blood going cold as her head began inadvertently manifesting frightful imaginings.

“There are only two options,” Bran began flatly. “He will take you captive until the child is born. Worse, he will make you his queen. The child will have the blood of the dragon; Valyrian blood. He, or she, would possess a magic unlike any other, thus ensuring the Night King’s own heir.” When Bran paused, the silence was deafening and the dread palpable. “We only have one option, and that is to secure his death. He will not wish to bring you harm, Your Grace, at least not on his own accord. It will all depend on how much you choose to engage yourself. Jon poses as his largest threat. Besides him being aware of your attachment to one another, and knowing he is the father, there is something else he fears in Jon.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed; the tone that Bran carried only told him that another revelation was about to be dropped on him, and he wasn’t sure he could handle it. Bran craned his head to look at him now. “There has been increasing activity in Volantis over the last few months; a newfound spirit that hasn’t been seen for an age. Something crucial is eminent; the red witch, Lady Melisandre, travels to Dragonstone bearing a gift.”

Jon’s breath grew shallow as if daring to breathe would cease Bran’s disclosure. “I don’t understand...I banned her from the north. Ser Davos will have her head once she makes land.”

With a silent gesture from Bran, Sam swiveled the wheelchair toward the door. “She brings aid at our most dire hour. That is all for now; I must go.” Sam quietly announced a goodbye, leaving Jon and Dany to share all of this news together.

When the door closed behind them, Jon was yet unable to face Dany. Not because of any displeasure, but because his eyes were filling with tears and somehow he felt exposed now. His war-infested life never allowed him to spare even a thought for the consideration of a family. Subconsciously he’d always believed he would die on the battlefield, his name to be forgotten and muddled in with the rest just as any other bastard would have. With Dany, the threat of impregnating her was never a concern given the curse she believed to have been brought on by a witch years ago.

“Are you disappointed?” Dany’s voice was light and small and laced with worry behind him.

Jon turned on his heel then, the idea of her feeling remotely troubled that he might disapprove breaking him from his own selfish thoughts. “No,” he insisted, clearing the wetness gathered at his eyes while he returned to his seat beside her. Upon closer inspection he noticed her eyes had been damp as well. “No. Just...overwhelmed.”

Her face contorted to reflect relief, bringing her hands up to hold either side of his face. “You continue giving me the things I thought I could never have.” Her voice trembled and her tears fell freely now.

He pulled himself up onto her bed and gathered her into his arms as she buried her face into his shoulder, her arms looping around his neck. “But we shouldn’t get our hopes up just yet,” her broken voice murmured into the thickness of his clothing.

Gently pulling away from her so that he could see her face, a frown creased at his brow. “Why do you say that?”

Her lip quivered as she spoke, finding it almost impossible to look at him. “I’ve miscarried before. It’s still so early...anything could happen. Bran can’t see everything the future holds, not entirely...for all I know this is just a cruel mind trick.”

Shaking his head, Jon placed a lingering kiss between her eyes and then positioned himself to sit against the pillows, bringing her to sit between his legs and lay against him. “Bran has never been wrong, only distracted against his will. If this is what he saw, then it is a piece of the future.”

Hesitating for a second, his eyes traveled down and his hands came to rest tenderly over her flattened belly, laying his chin on her shoulder. Her hands smoothed over his and she couldn’t conceal the wide smile stretching along her face. “A child, Jon. Our child.”

Grinning, a small puff of disbelief breathed through his lips, turning his face to kiss her temple while she gazed warmly at their hands. For a long time they stayed like this, keeping warm in each others embrace and taking comfort of a brief happiness they hadn’t had for longer than they could remember.

But Dany’s mind began to spin and something she had been pondering for some time now came to light again, only now it was more sensible. “Jon. There’s something I need you to do.”

Opening his eyes, he looked down at where she lay against his shoulder. “What is it?”

Slowly, she sucked in a deep breath, his rugged scent calming her jittering nerves. “We’ve lost a lot of men and going to King’s Landing could mean forfeiture. I know it sounds terrible, but this is the war that matters, that truly means life or death. It is now more than just me and you and everyone...we have another life to consider. Another life to protect from something so vile. We cannot afford any risks this time.” Sitting forward, she rotated to attend him, studying his face. “We need to send word to all of the kingdoms, to every house that will hear our proposition, and tell them who you really are.”

Jon gazed at her incredulously, lingering on her eyes and waiting for her to take it back. But she never did, and instead her brows lifted in anticipation of his response. “What? No. No, I will not do that to you.”

Her face shifted to reflect the challenging one he used to see regularly when they would argue. “You are doing it for me because I’ve asked it of you. It’s not a decision I’ve only just now devised on the heels of our wonderful news. Months ago, Varys was communicating with some of the northern houses. At the time he thought that I may have been swayed to leave with you for Winterfell, and he wished to get an idea of the number of forces my influence would have acquired.” Jon listened intently, but was finding it hard to remain cool. Dany was growing more enthusiastic, and he felt she could read his doubt and was desperate for him to consider her desire.

“He spoke of northern mountain clans, loyal to house Stark, that took shelter at the Vale of Arryn after the Night King progressed south. He told me they boasted four thousand men. You said before that the Vale has five thousand forces that remained in the Eyrie, and we must also account for the Riverlands. Sansa has strong influence over all of them and her uncle, Lord Edmure, does she not? We need every single able-bodied fighter that we can muster, and we need to rally them now before we’ve already made land in King’s Landing. If we send word straight away, they may have time to meet us when the army of the dead do, if not shortly thereafter.”

Jon could feel the familiar rise if heat within him, slowly shaking his head. “The Riverlands alone are divided; we could not count on acquiring their full military force. These are houses loyal to Stark; if they find out that I am not Ned’s son, that I descend from Targaryen blood and a man whose choices lead to Robert’s Rebellion, which was built on a lie, there’s a far greater chance they will turn their heads than join us. And when those we’ve managed to keep hear of it, we might face an even greater loss than we already have. No, I simply cannot do it. I would still refuse the crown, and then what happens? When you take your place, which you rightfully will, the revolt will be worse against your claim than even now, and then I am a liar in their eyes.”

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, winded and his body becoming overpowered by exhaustion. Now he couldn’t look at Dany, hands resting on his hips as he approached the window to oversee the misted land below.

Dany remained where she was, staring at his back, her voice growing stronger in anger. “If we do not use every resource we have, do everything in all of the power you and I both share together to win this war and survive...then our child has no future, or at least not one I’m willing to sacrifice.” Rising from her seat, she followed his steps and gently turned him toward her, her eyes pleading. “Your mother was revered in the north when she was alive, and you were raised to behold Ned Stark’s honor which you have done. The north recognizes this, they value your leadership; it’s why they chose you. My brother, your father, putting aside the annulment to Elia for a moment, was loved by nearly everyone in the seven kingdoms. Ser Barristan told me as much. Why wouldn’t the north wish to support you when you have the better claim?”

Closing his eyes, Jon felt he would be physically torn in two. Everything was riding on her request, her plea. It might help, or would the northern allegiances to house Stark turn a blind eye now that his Targaryen blood would become common knowledge? He knew she was right in needing to pull for any man willing to join them, but the risk he would be putting them in could derail everything they worked tirelessly to obtain. His head was pulsating violently, overwhelmed by all that was unraveling in the last few hours. Suddenly feeling the need for air, he turned back halfway around to look at her, his head hanging slightly. “I need time to think.”

Without another word, he left her room after ensuring Jorah would remain with Dany in her frailty, and sought out the solitude of his own chambers in a blinding walk through the fortress halls.


	14. Part XIV - Jon's Exposition

Jon found himself on the balcony of his chambers later that evening following his and Dany’s heated discussion. They hadn’t spoken nor seen each other since. While he felt an immense amount of guilt for leaving her earlier, the crisis he was battling in his head was causing him an overbearing amount of grief and he didn’t want her to come to know how sincerely afraid he was. A new fear as a father, for Dany to be flying into battle whilst carrying their child, for all of it. If he had the influence to persuade her armies to follow his command, he would have begged her to stay in the safety of Dragonstone while he lead their forces south.

The castle walls were kind in deflecting some of the winds while the frigid air cleared his nostrils. His back leaned against the wall as his thoughts trampled over one another. In his attempt at sorting them to weigh his options properly, he grew more flustered that one thought branched into ten more and he couldn’t keep his head straight. Arya was leaving and he may never see her after the morning; they acquired the Golden Company, but were still several thousands short; he was to be a father to a child the Night King wanted for his own revolting benefit; Dany begged for him to accept his inherited claim to the throne in a final, desperate effort to build their enforcements….

He made a promise to Daenerys and never once did the idea of betraying that promise ever cross his mind. Though it would be her order for him to do as she asked, it still felt dishonest if nothing else. Sometimes his honor tortured him; even in making the right decision, at times he was left with the lingering self-loathing once it was complete. The unknown of the turnout once his identity reached the ears of Westeros frightened him; what if more abandoned their cause? But what if what Dany hoped for _did_ materialize?

His breathing became shallow and panicked, and then he left his chambers to wander until he subconsciously made his way to the great hall, finding a steel flagon of wine as he poured it into the chalice beside it. Mead was more his flavor, but anything would do to calm his racing mind.

As was usual in a castle filled to the brim with people, he was only spared a half of one hour in solitude, but the wine diminished his edge. He sat partly slouched in the corner of his seat, elbow rested and his thumb idly running along his brow as his grey-brown eyes peered distractedly into the roaring fireplace before him. 

Ser Davos joined him, but hesitated before deciding if he should sit or not. “A silver stag for your thoughts?”

Jon couldn’t resist a small smile; it had been far too long since he had the pleasure of being graced by Davo’s presence. “How much time do you have?” He asked in jest.

Davos sat after filling a glass for himself and sighed comfortably. “That would be up to the Night King himself, unfortunately.”

A low chuckle sounded in Jon’s chest and he repositioned himself to sit up properly, glancing at Davos before taking a moderate sized gulp of his drink. “You’ve been my closest adviser for a while now. Can I trust you to keep one more secret until it becomes a known shitstorm to everyone else?”

Davos’s thick eyebrows lifted briefly; Jon was unsure if it was the compliment, or the idea of keeping a secret deemed a shitstorm. “I’m old; nobody would care to hear it from me whether it be true or not, but you have my attention, young man.”

After a pause, and another hefty drink, Jon’s eyes scanned around the room to be sure nobody was within earshot. He briefed Davos on everything; initially he only wanted to inform him of the baby, but realized he couldn’t seek proper advice without the whole story. He shared his thoughts, his fears, his hopes. Interestingly, Davos didn’t react much at all, much to Jon’s relief. Rather, he was complacent and allowed a silence to rest while he calculated his words.

“Aye, now I understand the need for all of this,” Davos gestured to Jon and his chalice. “Though you’re still generous; I probably would be passed out on this floor if I carried _that_ burden.”

Smiling gratefully, Jon finished off his wine and thought better of moving on to a third round. He wanted to remain at least somewhat clear-minded for the remainder of the day. “So you can see why I’m conflicted.”

Davos sipped at his wine. “Let’s start with the worst possible outcome. And no, it isn’t that we all die.” Jon gave him a look. “Only kidding, but that _would_ resolve almost _all_ of your problems.” He cleared his throat. “Say you share all of this with everyone. Those that remained under Her Grace’s good oath to support her would not abandon the fight. First off, she has her own armies strictly loyal to her. Even without your help, that’s a damn good start, even if outnumbered. Second, the northerners who have accepted her as queen, as a complete stranger and having faith in her still, would only gain support for yourself. It’s nice enough they believe in a queen they’re unfamiliar with, but better for them if it should be a king they already recognize.”

“That’s where the issue lies. I would only be lying to gain their support; I would never accept it,” Jon said.

“In that scenario,” Davos continued. “Maybe they would shun you for some time. Give them a few years, give Daenerys a few years to start making changes and for them to see what all she brings to this world. Time makes you forget, and besides, there will be larger matters that need their attention than what you did some years ago for the betterment of everyone,” Davos explained. “The best outcome is that most, if not all, of those who swore allegiance to house Stark accept the call. Obviously they aren’t loyal to you for your name, but when they learn you’re the rightful king?” He spluttered in an overexaggerated manner to enunciate his point. 

Jon folded his hands over his stomach and laid his head against the back of his chair, gawking up at the vaulted ceiling in thought.

“Cheer up,” Davos scolded quietly. “You’re going to be a father; you have more to look forward to than most.”

Jon didn’t know where his clear cognizance emerged from, but he sat himself up, a very slight buzz weighing on him now. Davos’s brows lifted in anticipation of his next move. “I assume you’ve just had a moment of clarity?”

Jon got to his feet and blew out a breath, heart racing. “I know what I need to do and I’m a fool for not thinking of it earlier.. Thank you for your counsel, Ser Davos.” When he passed, he thumped Davos on the back as he traveled the length of the halls leading to the chambers. When he came upon Dany’s door, he exhaled another breath, but now it was shuddered. Suddenly he was brought back to the night he first brought himself to her room, a similar uncertainty plaguing him, that a queen such as herself would deny him entry and any idea of sharing a bed.

He knocked, but after a few seconds there was no answer. Perhaps she was angry with him, and he wouldn’t have blamed her. He tried again, his restlessness growing, and without a response, he slowly turned the knob and pushed open the door just enough to see inside. Dany was nowhere to be found.

“She’s out tending to the dragons, my lord,” Maester Henly’s kind-natured voice came from behind him, making him jump as if he had just been caught doing something he shouldn’t be.

“Thank you,” Jon said a little breathlessly, closing her door and headed to his own chambers to impatiently throw on more layers of fur to avoid the chill. Finally, he found his way outside to the usual cliffside, his eyes squinting through the breeze up toward the infinite grey sky. It would be far too cold to take to the air especially in her condition, he figured, so there was only one other place he could think of that she could be. In the thick, heavy snow that reached up his calves, he heaved across the land, down the sloping path and around the corner. A few paces more he came upon the cave and when he peered around to the opening, was relieved to find Dany sitting with Drogon’s massive head lying above her legs and Rhaegal wrapped behind her.

When they lifted their heads at his appearance, Rhaegal shrilled with delight, Drogon sounding as if Jon had interrupted something. Dany’s face lifted from where she had been concentrating on caressing Drogon, a small, timid smile greeting Jon as he stepped over the threshold. Before going any further, he took a moment to read the situation, but he didn’t get the feeling that she would cast him out, so he continued.

Dany watched him with some mild intrigue and Rhaegal, with the ease of one movement, came to poke at Jon’s chest with his snout and Jon laughed while his hand raised to run along his face. It was with pleasant disbelief that Dany absorbed the scene before her, bringing herself to her feet. When Rhaegal pulled away, he and Drogon took to the skies as if sensing the situation called for privacy. They both watched as they departed, the uncertainty of who should speak first creating a small discomfort.

“Rhaegal seems rather taken with you. Should I be jealous?” She teased gently, but the fondness was there. He knew that it meant everything to her for her dragons, her scaled children, to come to accept those who kept her company.

Jon stared at her a moment before nodding and looking out toward where only solid grey skies lay, the sea now unseen in the heap of snow layering its surface. “We had some time to bond over the last couple of weeks.”

Her head cocked slightly to one side at this revelation and she couldn’t hide her pleased grin. Restless with anticipation for his purpose here, he turned himself toward her and collected her hands in his, staring at them for a moment in contemplation. Dany’s face became pensive, a small frown forming at his sudden motion.

“I’m sorry for storming out the way that I did,” he began with some strain to his voice. “I love you, you know. More than anything in this world.”

Dany nodded, her eyes searching him for clues as to where this was leading. “I love you and I’m not angry with you. You needed time to grasp everything.”

“Still, it was inexcusable. You were right. It would be irresponsible if we didn’t seek the help of every able-bodied man. For us and everyone. For our child.” His eyes were piercing and hard now, and she felt a swirl in her stomach at his intensity. It had been a long time since he last regarded her this way. “But I’d like to go about it another way, if you would have it. A way in which we both get what we want in the end.”

Wordlessly she gaped at him, her eyes darting between his as if her answers lay there, and then he was crouching onto one of his knees. She could no longer find air to breathe and a shiver unrelated to the cold traveled from head to toe. Jon never released both of her hands in his and he found the courage to look up at her then, taking his time to remember the image as it was before him.

“Your Grace. Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.” A small, timid laugh emitted from her at his formality. His face remained soft and sincere in his efforts and it warmed her heart which was bound to burst through her coat at any time. “I would love nothing more than for you to be my wife. Together we will rally the kingdoms, call for arms under the order of Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen. Together we will free ourselves from Cersei Lannister and the Night King and together we will do our duty to bring peace into the realm. Together we will raise our child to be the benevolent, kind person we wish to see more of in the world.”

Dany pressed her lips together in a conscious attempt to stifle the whimper trying to escape her throat. But it was far too late; already her eyes stung as tears gathered in the corners. With each passing second, Jon wanted to press her for her answer. Dany pulled him back up, his eyes never leaving her. Just before worry set in, she gathered herself enough to speak.

“I would love nothing more than to be your wife,” she whispered tenderly, unable to utter anything further, and Jon barely allowed either of them to catch their breath before leaning down to collect her mouth with a passion that had been absent for far too long.

Dany shrieked and squeezed her eyes shut, the tears spilling down the sides of her cheeks and she brought her arms around his shoulders, pressing herself into him. His hands cradled each side of her face, the feeling of her beneath his hands had nearly grown strange since they last were able to be together as they were. Though Dany was still more breathless as of late, the fervor that he induced nearly suffocated her. Giggling childishly, she brought her hands around to push on his chest, forcing his separation from her. Winded, his eyes grew shy now.

“I cannot allow you to leave me disheveled,” she grinned playfully. “Maester Henly will be waiting for me.”

Jon’s eyes challenged hers then, his voice low and husky. “I want to make you disheveled.”

She kissed him lightly. “Maybe later,” she muttered against his mouth, breaking from him as she gave him a sly look and made way for her exit, Jon following in her footsteps.

\---

He waited, pacing impatiently, outside of her chambers; though he had been welcomed inside as the maester examined Dany to confirm her pregnancy, he wasn’t completely aware of the process but understood that it was quite invasive and personal and felt he would be intruding.

Not much time had passed before the sound of her door clicking open reached his ears and he stopped dead in his tracks as Maester Henly gestured for him to come inside, a friendly and proud smile stretching his lips thin. Jon turned the corner and quietly closed the door behind him, unsure as to why he felt so nervous or what he had expected to hear. His eyes fell upon Dany who looked as if she was trying not to smile too hard.

“Approximately eight weeks, Your Grace; my lord,” the maester announced, his hands collected together at his breast. He almost looked as thrilled as the parents. “It appears I was correct but also mistaken regarding the purging of the stomach. Usually the poison is expelled within the first couple of hours, so it was unusual that it didn’t cease these past couple of days. Now we know why, I’m delighted to say. I will leave you to your privacy.”

Dany thanked him as he walked out, and Jon sat at the edge of her bed, their smiles contagious as he brought her face into his hands and kissed her promptly. Her hands came to lay against his.

“He was able to concoct a powder to keep my stomach calm,” she said quietly.

“That’s wonderful.” Jon’s eyes traveled the length of her as if expecting her stomach to be protruding already, eager to be able to watch as she grew their child in her.

“Well...I suppose we ought to get on with it all then. Would you mind helping me dress?” When she slowly got up, his eyes followed her without a response forming in his mouth, blinking over his shoulder when she removed her gown in a few easy strokes. He left the bed and came around to stand behind her as she unfolded her winter garb for the evening, Jon pressing his lips against the curvature of her shoulder as he steadied her so she could dress without falling. Somehow he had managed to keep his hands to himself, though the few glimpses he stole of her were tormenting.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Dany asked, holding his hands in each of hers.

Jon’s eyes danced between each of hers, his chest rising and sinking in his exhale. “I’m sure.” A flicker of a smile twitched at his lips and she planted a light, lingering kiss on them.

Together they made their way to the great hall where they had called upon the entirety of its guests to gather. First the news would be broken here before dispersed into the realm. A surge of anxiety troubled Jon’s stomach now as they stood before the thousands convened in the room; noble lords and ladies, friends and family and northern smallfolk alike. He made himself find a familiar face, anyone he could grab onto to ease his nerves, and he found Arya. A sad smile hinted on him then and she watched him expectantly.

“Thank you, all, for joining us with such little notice,” Jon began, trying to think away the tightness in his chest. “There’s...something of great importance that we feel you all should know. It’s something I’ve come to understand for some time now though I’ve still been grappling with it myself, so I can only imagine how it will sound to all of you.”

Dany stood beside him, stoic, her eyes scanning the room to read reactions.

“A few months ago, my brother, Bran Stark and my closest friend, Samwell Tarly, brought to my attention a discovery they concluded together,” Jon continued, and he hoped that nobody could hear the tremble in his words. Arya and Sansa exchanged a look before returning their attention to Jon. “Ned Stark lived and died with a secret. Not that he fathered a bastard son while he was venturing away from his home and his children, breaking his vows to his wife. But rather that his sister, Lyanna Stark, had just given birth to a child who would have been killed at her breast if Robert Baratheon became aware of said child.” He slowly inhaled, finding a little more courage to look around now. With each retelling of the story ignited a swell of foreboding, his blood turning to ice. Dany made a discreet, hidden movement to caress his hand beside her to reassure him.

“Ned took the child into his care when Lyanna succumbed to complications relating to childbirth. The reason for this was because the child’s father, his blood father, was Rhaegar Targaryen. With Lyanna’s hand in marriage and consent, Rhaegar fathered a child with her, but was killed at the Trident before he could say goodbye to his wife or welcome his child into the world. Ned brought this child home under the ruse that it had been his; his true name was Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name, heir to the iron throne...and for most of his life would only be known as Jon Snow, bastard to Lord Eddard Stark.”

There was a slow realization as it sunk in; some looked between each other to ask if they had understood correctly. Others mouths fell agape and their eyes bore into his. Jon raised his voice a little more now that the crowd’s volume increased. “All of you here now are well aware that Bran has the ability to see into our histories; if you find it hard to believe me, you can take his word. I know that it’s a lot to take in, and I wouldn’t fault you for feeling a little betrayed. I did as well but I came to accept it, though not until more recently.”

So far the reactions were mild, which he would have preferred over violence or abandonment. He looked at Dany for a long beat, and she gave a small nod as he called their attention once more. “I bring you this information for a much more urgent purpose. We are about forty-thousand men less than the army of the dead by itself even with the Golden Company, and we need to be as evenly matched with them than we are now. For this reason, word will be sent out to each kingdom and individual region with the hope that we are able to extract the forces of the other northern houses who still have any left, for one last war.”

The room grew louder and Jon allowed them some time to soak it in. “That is not all. I vowed myself and the north to Queen Daenerys, and I am adamant to serve her as promised. This is my abdication as you hear it now. Never did I wish to rule, but time and time again I was, somehow, privileged to be given roles of leadership.”

He took it upon himself to meet the eyes of the most notable people in his life who had been alongside this journey with him, sinking in the reality that he was lucky to have so many friends and loyal followers in his presence. “It lead me to where I am now, to who I’ve discovered I am. I have no desire to accept the crown, and I want to make it clear in your presence here that this has been my sole decision without the influence of any other. You know this, because you crowned me king in the north, though I did not ask for it. I did the best that I could and I hope I served you well. And that honor will never be forgotten by me so long as I live. But Daenerys has worked, suffered, fought the entirety of her life to come this far; she saved the north by her own will, putting aside her own objectives to guarantee our survival. Her purpose is within her reach now. Nobody deserves it more than she does.”

There was a multitude of nods of agreement, some who gestured their drinks toward the both of them. He took another long breath, but slowly relief flooded him while everyone behaved cordially. “In order to convince the northern houses to our joint cause, we’ve decided to wed to ensure the strongest alliance possible.”

There was a short beat of bewilderment before random cheers and jeers erupted, followed by a steady stream of clapping. Jon grinned widely and looked down at his feet, tilting his head to see that Dany’s cheeks had turned a faint pink and she was fighting to show her vulnerability.  

“Also, the marriage is not strictly for political purposes, if anyone was wondering,” Jon assured them, eliciting some cheeky remarks toward the couple. Tormund’s glee was loudest of all, clapping wildly up at them.

Dany was full on red by now and had to distract herself with anything else to wash away the warmth at her cheeks. Goblets had been filled with mead and wine and Sansa lifted hers high into the air. “To a Targaryen restoration,” she cheered, to which every single person followed.

Dany’s goblet had been filled with water much to everyone else’s unawareness. Given that she was still so early in the pregnancy, they decided it best to omit that bit of news tonight until she could be sure she would carry to term. 

As Jon was preparing to sit, he found that Dany was staring into the crowd as they became aware of her acknowledgement. “There is one last thing I’d like to share.”

Jon was unaware of what was to come, wondering if she had decided after all to announce her pregnancy. He watched her intently, tensing. “I will declare the north an independent kingdom. I find it is only fair to grant what you all have long wished would someday come again in exchange for the reinforcements we seek.”

Before Dany could even finish her sentence, the sound of chairs being scraped against the floor caught her attention. Most had jumped out of their seats, and for a brief moment of heartache Dany expected the worst, unsure of where she misspoke and overstepped. But arms raised high into the air and chants escalated and deflected against the vaulted walls with ‘Queen Daenerys’. It reminded her of the night that Jon had promised the north to her, but this time she was being regarded as their _queen_ , and not just a dragon queen. Her’s and Sansa’s eyes met and Sansa bowed politely in her direction while Dany nodded in correspondence.

Caught up in the clamor, her queenly facade had been completely thawed and it reflected on her now. Her eyes came to slowly scan the entirety of the room and all of those who would swear fealty to her. Only when Jon’s hand moved to catch hers did she come to look at him, a relaxed, adoring smile smearing his face. When she returned her attention back to the northerners, she bowed her head graciously and they came to rest at their tables once more.

The pair stayed for a little while longer before they slipped away to the library where they would begin composing their message. Sam had kindly laid out several pieces of parchment and quills for them at a large square table. Torches lined the walls to illuminate a soft glow amidst the shelves of books. Dany came to notice that Sam must have revitalized the room’s contents as the cobwebs and dust that grew inches high had since been washed away. The must had cleared and smelled of wood and aged paper, far more pleasing to the senses.

Once they seated themselves, they each pored over the parchment, envisioning the proper wordage together. They both contributed; Jon in his declaration for his proper identity, followed by Dany’s hand in their call for reinforcements as well as her promise to bestow independence upon them.

They wrote until their hands began to cramp, and finally all was completed as night had descended on them. When Jon looked across the table to Dany, she was gazing in thought at no particular spot on the table, her face unreadable.

“What’s happened?” He inquired quietly, and his voice brought her out of her daze.

Her brows lifted in thought and she swallowed before she spoke with a small shake of her head. “I realize that in my decision to give the north their independence, I’ve come to remember that you’ve always declared the north your home. Your real, true home.”

A frown creased at Jon’s brows. “We are to be married, Dany. Wherever you want me to be, I will be.”

She smiled modestly, pausing. “Would it be selfish to ask you to stay by my side? To be my king, properly?”

The word ‘king’ struck him hard in his chest; a staggering and unexpected swell as he swallowed the thought of him, a _king_ . It was too fresh and nearly outlandish to think of himself as such, so he shoved away the thought and came to kneel before her and sandwiched his hands around one of hers. They were warm and relieved the cold of his own. The way in which he looked at her confirmed that she had been silly and far too unconventional to think he would return to Winterfell for good after the war, but she understood the crave to just be _home_.

“Is that alright?” She asked feebly, her voice barely above a hopeful whisper.

As Jon lifted himself from where he had been crouched, he regarded her for barely a second before he closed in to kiss her passionately in response to her question. Without hesitation she leaned into him, her hands holding his rough, coarsely bearded face while relief washed over her. After another second, he pulled his head back so that he could see her.

“Are you ready?” She whispered to him, and he stood to his feet and pulled her up with him as they began to collect the scrolls of parchment, sealing them with the wax sigils of houses Targaryen and Stark and binding them. When they arrived at the rookery that housed the ravens, Maester Henly had been awaiting them. He had been the only maester on the island, thus the only one to tend to the care of the ravens. As he reached into the cages and bound the scrolls to their legs, Jon and Dany stood overlooking the balcony where a swirling mist encapsulated the land below.

One by one, the maester released each raven into the frozen air as Jon watched with bated breath until each one disappeared in the cover of night.

\---

They convened again in Dany’s chambers; it had been much later than either had realized by the time they left the rookery. Her room had become glacial since it was last used and Jon worked away to stoke the fire until it came alive. A little ways over to his side Dany had already been stripped of her day clothes and slid into her sleep gown, more fitted than what the northern women wore and opened the softness of her chest, curving downward only slightly above her cleavage.

He followed suit, though it took him immensely longer to be rid of all of his furs, weaponry down to his boots, becoming to remain bare chested and in his trousers. Quietly, Dany walked over to him and smoothed her hands up along his chest, turning her head and laying her cheek against the middle of his chest to the steady thumping of his heart. His arms came around her, binding his hands at her back while he held her against him fully and rested his lips at the top of her head.

Slowly he swayed them in a soft rock, and he could feel her body relax as the seconds passed. He reached down, one arm remaining at her back while the other swept her legs from the floor as she elicited a yelp at the sudden loss of footing, and he carried her to the bed, crawling with his knees until he set her down. Her legs came to lay sideways beside her while his stretched out to either side of her.

“Where do you wish our wedding ceremony to be?” She asked curiously, her arms reaching behind her to begin the loosening of her braids.

“Home, in the godswood. Once it returns to its former state. I think I’d hate anything else,” he said, leaning on his hands behind him.

A few ringlets came over her shoulder as she combed her fingers through them. An eyebrow raised, her voice teasing. “I’ve heard tales of the tradition here. The men will follow and undress me while the women do the same for you until we meet again  in our chambers. A strange custom.”

A slow, sly grin spread across Jon’s face. “I don’t expect anyone would have the nerve to do that to their queen, and you’re the only woman I want taking my clothes off.”

Her hands fingered through the remaining braids as she combed them into soft saves, the thickness of her silver mane creating a halo effect around her face. Jon observed her for a long time like this, immersing himself in her beauty.

“Oh?” she inquired, though her tone carried subtle provocation.

His eyes narrowed slightly at her. “Who do you have in mind to do you the favor?”

Her lips pressed tightly together to prevent a smile, but her eyes were crinkled as she leaned forward on her hands and crawled toward him, growing closer as she hovered above him and stopping just before his face. “He’s right here,” she muttered, then closed the space to kiss him tenderly, her hands supporting herself at either side of him.

He freed one of his hands to run along the back of her neck, tilting his chin upward to reciprocate. A realization struck Jon then - perhaps in the absence of their intimacy and his mind having been preoccupied by a constant state of anxiety and worry and politics - that he had so nearly lost her mere hours ago now. In the darkest hours of her comatose state the lurking anguish that he had already spoken his final words to her, that he would never again set eyes on the impossibly striking beauty of her blue and lavender-flecked eyes, to never hear her infectious laugh in only the way that he could make her do so, to be together as they were now, to never hold her or protect her or reassure her again. She became the center of his existence, grounded him when he needed it most and when he never he expected he did. When he made the decision to come to Dragonstone to seek her help, never in his wildest dreams would he have expected her to send his world into such an unexpected disarray.

And in retrospect, the idea that had she succumbed to the poisoning, so would have the baby. His arms tightened around her then, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of her head and caress around to hold along her cheek.

As if able to hear his thoughts, she sat back onto her knees and looked at him sweetly. “Come here,” she instructed warmly. 

Jon did as she asked and sat himself up, sitting only inches away from her and watching her curiously. She took hold of his hand and brought it to press against her lower abdomen, pressing deep. For a moment he flinched and went to remove his hand thinking he would pain her until she assured him otherwise, and then the smallest, inflexible swell deep within her could be felt against his palm. It was just enough to fill the space, and it audibly drew the breath out of him, his eyes tearing away to look with wonder at Dany who was grinning adoringly at him.

“I’ve been so desperate still for a sign to tell me it’s there, and then I found it this morning. It’s _real_ , Jon,” she whispered with a newfound elation.

“I told you that witch was unreliable,” he retorted mirthfully, thumbing over the very subtle rounding edge of the lump beneath his hand.

Dany playfully challenged him, her eyes narrowing. “It still didn’t stop you from seeking me out, though, did it?”

“No,” he began, doing his best to refrain from smiling at the reminder. “But I think I had already accepted the possible repercussions, and knew I would love no other like I love you.”

It was difficult for Dany to rib him when he gifted her with such lovely words. She leaned forward to kiss him softly, comforted at the feeling of his smile against her lips. “I love you,” she murmured.

Jon collected her in his arms and brought her down with him to lay against the pillows, Dany hiking the heavy furs up while resting her cheek on his chest and her arm tossed over his abdomen. Lazily Jon’s fingers grazed along her lower back, the ambience of the snapping fire and the dancing display of its warm illumination hypnotizing Jon as his eyes began to fall heavy. He heaved a deep, relaxed sigh and when he looked down a few minutes later, Dany’s eyes had already closed, her lips just barely parted open in her sweet slumber. Jon enclosed his other arm around her as securely as he could and kissed her forehead before finally joining her in rest.


	15. Part XV - The Dread Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and her crew leave for King's Landing. Varys's promise comes to fruition. Jon faces his fears.

In waking some time ago, Dany lounged in her bed beside Jon who was fast asleep, his worries at bay. Her stomach had begun to churn near an hour ago, and she was forced out of the warmth of his side to empty its contents beside her basin. Somehow she had not disrupted him, and afterwards promptly mixed the powder in some water to ease her discomfort in a few gulps.

 

As she lay there, an unusual orange hue was filtered against the dark winter skies outside as the sun fought to be seen. It cast a diffused, soft palette that she longed to see again once winter concluded. For now, she would have to grow used to what they were dealt. She sunk further into the bed and rested her chin in her hand, propped on her elbow while delicately combing through Jon’s raven locks that had only just become disheveled even in its loosened manner, which told Dany that he must have been in a lucid sleep to have remained so still in the night.

 

His left arm beside her was slung up along his pillow, his tranquil face turned towards her while he lay on his back. A small smile crossed her lips as her eyes moved along his features, lingering on the thin scars that were etched along his skin. Sometimes it felt strange to think that those scars told stories of a different life, a life in which she was not yet apart of. The things he had seen, how many battles he fought and won and lost...he was a warrior, a protector, though sometimes reluctantly so.

 

How this brooding, moody, effortlessly affectionate and impossibly handsome man had fallen into her life so fortuitously was still a phenomenon to her. The last thing either of them sought was an unyielding, fervid passion. They both had their own goals, their eyes fixed on the issue at hand so separate from the other and both too tenacious to admit aloud that they needed each other. More than just as allies, but for something  _ much _ more; a visceral love that neither party knew was absent.

 

Dany took advantage of the tranquility of the morning; life as it was now was devoid of anything resembling calm, and it brought her an inward peace that she could lay here now, her fingers lightly grazing along Jon’s face. She laid her head on her arm while her fingers curled into the coarseness of his beard, flowing along the curvature of his neck and up his muscled bicep, her eyes following her own movements.

 

When she brought her hand down to rub over his chest, a sleepy hum and a half-hearted clearing of the throat erupted from him then. Part of her wished he would stay asleep so he wouldn’t have to deal with the heartache of saying goodbye to Arya this morning, their futures to be left unknown.

 

As his dark eyes slowly blinked open and came to bring everything into focus, a lazy smile graced his lips when he caught sight of Dany, rolling over with his arm coming around her while he buried his face into her neck and chest. She held him close, kissing the top of his head and closing her eyes. A long sigh released from him, then without warning his leg swung over and he gently rolled over onto her, conscious to not put any pressure on her belly. Dany giggled and his groggy eyes studied her face a while. 

 

When he leaned down to kiss her, she quickly turned her face away and her petite hands pushed at his chest, a small sputter of laughter escaping her. “My breath will smell worse than Drogon’s!”

 

Jon snorted and took advantage of the exposure of her neck, planting a kiss there instead, but she recoiled as his beard tickled her relentlessly. His arms wrapped tightly around her, trapping her beneath him playfully as he then fell beside her. Dany’s lips were pressed tightly together, her eyes squinted with how hard she was smiling but refusing to give in.

 

“Give your husband a kiss,” he demanded teasingly through a hoarse voice.

 

“Mm-mm,” she declined, trying to wriggle free of his grip, but it was useless. “Not my husband yet,” she challenged mockingly while she anticipated his next move reflecting her instigation.

 

Jon’s lips twitched into a smile but masked it with a sobered expression, then his fingers came to dig into her back, inciting a raucous laugh from her mouth as he grinned and quickly mashed his mouth against hers. Initially she squealed, her eyes pinching together until she was unable to deny him, sighing against him and when he loosened his hold, she brought her hands up to cradle his face.

 

He eased up a little, having transitioned from a playful, rough kiss to a tender and slow one. Dany pulled away enough to see him, gently kissing his nose before rolling away to begin dressing in appropriate outerwear. Taking note, Jon walked over to the chilled basin and began to do a quick wash-up.

 

His eyes peered over and out the window; it would soon be time for Arya to depart. Suddenly he felt melancholy, his mouth downturned as he wrung out the sponge he had just used to clean his hair. Caught up in his gloom, he hadn’t realized that Dany had found her way to his side and he turned his attention down at her now. Her eyes were watching him sympathetically, likely that she had already interpreted his thoughts. She snaked her arms at either side of his torso and pressed herself against him, the contrast of her warmth against the cold of the room shocking him.

 

Slowly he exhaled, knowing that they needed to get on with the day but finding her soothing comforts all too invigorating. Leaving this room meant saying goodbye to Arya and he was far from ready for that. Numbly, they finished dressing in their thick winter garments, and then Dany brought him over to sit on the bed. She sat herself on her knees behind him and brushed out his hair, his lips snarling every so often when she pulled a snag. Her hands blended in a braid of his own, smiling as she did so, as she collected the thick mane back into a knot just as he liked it. Jon then took this as his cue and he got to his feet, turning so that he could offer Dany his hand in helping her off the bed.

 

\---

 

When they arrived on the beach, Dany came to notice that a shallow path had been carved out for them in the snow. The thick mist that was ever-lingering made it difficult to see much ahead, and she began to wonder what the skies must be like on dragonback. The ship that would be taking Arya, Jaime and The Hound to the edge of the Crownlands had been anchored, the ice below it fractured from its wake. Sansa and Bran were present when Jon and Dany arrived, and had Sansa’s eyes not been pink and swollen, he would have thought she had held it together thus far.

 

When she lifted her head to acknowledge them, Jon came to bring her into a warm hug, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw when she sobbed into his furs. The gusts of wind whipped what little bare skin any of them bore. Dany stood beside Jon and they formed a line of sorts, everyone turning when several figures emerged from their side.

 

Flanked by three Unsullied and three Dothraki bloodriders, Arya, The Hound and Jaime came into view looking far more sure of themselves than those present to wish them farewell. Jaime and The Hound were dressed thick in armor and sheepskin while Arya was bundled in her leathers and furs; she never wore plated armor for practicality purposes, but now she did, though it was light. He watched his little sister, ever the leader in front with her hand resting on Needle’s pommel, wishing he could persuade her to stay. Her expression read as one who was perhaps simply going for an ale, not leading a raid cross country to rescue someone and kill another.

 

As Dany began to address her men, Jon took a couple of paces forward and reached out to shake Jaime’s hand.

 

“Your Grace,” Jaime began with a sly smile at the use of his formal title, giving Jon’s hand a firm shake before straightening himself. Jon wished he hadn’t given in to Jaime’s taunt, but the slightest smirk twisted onto his face then. Dany returned to them as the others boarded the ship to prepare and Jaime bowed his head politely at her  “I suppose I should thank both of you for not having my head the moment I arrived at Winterfell and eventually here. Let’s hope this journey will not end that way. It would be a shame to miss the coronation.”

 

“Cut it with the niceties and get on the damn ship, we haven’t got all the time in the world,” the Hound grumbled as he walked past to board, to which Jaime turned around to look at him as if disbelieving this was his traveling partner.

 

“Ser Jaime,” Dany called to him as he turned to her. “Remember what I promised.”

 

With a final nod from Jaime to the future king and queen, he followed behind The Hound onto the ship. Jon found it far more difficult to even look at Arya now, who was in the strong embrace of Sansa after having just said her farewell to Bran. If he acknowledged her, it only meant the goodbye to be true. Dany watched him as he kept his eyes downcast and gently stroked his hand beside her, making him turn to her with a sorrowful smile. She then began to wonder if she made the right decision in granting this endeavor. As Arya made her way to Jon after Bran, he was surprised to find his eyes stinging and the sight of her became blurred before him.

 

Arya began to crumble but before she could fall apart, she threw herself up into his arms, and he held her as tight as the day he made voyage for Castle Black. He allowed her furs to soak up the tears that escaped him and when he lowered her back onto her feet, her large reddened eyes found his.

 

“We’ll see you in a few days. You have your Needle?”

 

She nodded quietly, moving aside her cloak to confirm as much. “Be careful up there...Your Grace,” her lips opened to a sad grin. Jon nodded with the smallest smile before she moved to Dany.

 

“You must promise to return unharmed once the war is over,” Dany said firmly but not without playfulness.

 

“I’ll do my best, Your Grace. You must return the favor.” Arya smiled and Dany reciprocated as she brought the girl into a hug.

 

They parted and with one more glimpse, Arya turned on her heel. Jon looked over at Sansa and wrapped his arm behind her back as her lip quivered, visibly struggling with keeping herself posed. Dany linked Jon’s free arm in hers and they watched until the ship was swallowed by the thickness of the frigid gloom.

 

\---

 

Jon had excused himself while Dany and Sansa took to the great hall. He had been meaning to seek out Gendry for some time as he had been laboring meticulously with some of the northern smiths, working day in and day out to make armor and weaponry. Deep within the Dragonstone caves had been

 

When he came upon the armory, he was welcomed by a rush of warmth and the scent of steel and coal. The air was thick with steam and smoke as they worked tirelessly. Numerous piles of steel were neatly displayed along a long wall, shimmering and not yet besmirched with blood. Infantry shields were leaned up against the wall, all adorned with the direwolf sigil as as he could see. But his eyes upon the largest number: two sets of dragon armor. Jon’s mouth subconsciously fell open while he marveled the work and he stopped in his tracks only to navigate his way to it.

 

A reflective sheen mirrored Jon’s face when he looked down upon the metal plating, mammoth in size and impenetrable. The design matched the scaley pattern of the beasts chests and the long neck pieces were to guard the fleshy underside of their necks, layered and flexible for unrestricted movements of their heads. The chest armor would be fit to run along their underbellies. Black and red hues for Drogon, green and bronze for Rhaegal.

 

“Do you think our queen will approve?” Gendry inquired, approaching Jon fresh from the forgery, and Jon’s eyes broke from his gaze to acknowledge him. Gendry’s skin gleaming with sweat and his face hard and studied, nodding down at the dragon’s armor before them.

 

“I expect she’ll wish to marry you instead,” Jon quipped playfully, and Gendry grinned. In the brief pause, his face hardened.

 

“So your real father was Rhaegar, then,” Gendry began hesitantly. “I was wrong when I said our fathers were good friends. Turns out mine killed yours.”

 

Jon shook his head to brush it off. “Ned was my father in the true meaning. I don’t think any differently of you knowing what I know now.”

 

Gendry nodded, but there was still an air of trepidation. “I didn’t know mine, anyway. Who would have thought their sons would come to be allies?”

 

They shared a small laugh and Jon returned his attention to the dragon armor. “This is impeccable work.”

 

Humbled, Gendry scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve just completed the queen’s armor. We found a small mound of dragon glass in the caves so we’re forging what we can with that.” When Gendry caught sight of the curious look on Jon’s face, a crooked grin pulled at his lips. “There’s something for you, as well. Figured it would be to your benefit to wear something a bit more sturdy.”

 

Jon narrowed his eyes at him with mock challenge. “What’s wrong with mine?”

 

He followed Gendry while he spoke over his shoulder, leading Jon to the far corner of the armory. “We both know what the dead are capable of. Put you on a dragon, you wouldn’t survive if you fell off the damn thing, not with that,” Gendry quipped, his hand gesturing to all of Jon who chuckled at his brashness.

 

Before them were two upright figures each draped with a dark cloth. Gendry walked up to one and gently tugged away one of covers, and Jon gawked speechlessly at what presented before him. The armor wasn’t bulky - like the dragon’s, it was made for practicality and to allow ease of movement. It was a deep gray steel, the chest embellished proudly with the Stark direwolf sigil. The pauldrons at the shoulders flared to a point, and the gambeson beneath featured the shape of dragon scales in a deep mahogany red, to which Jon could only assume had been added recently given he had only just announced his Targaryen association.

 

A wolfskin pelt and cloak hung over one shoulder, bound by two leather straps that met at the chest with a circular brooch that also boasted the direwolf sigil. Jon hadn’t realized his mouth had fallen open until Gendry spoke.

 

“Sansa made the cloak for you and brought it to me a while back. I was told to wait to show you until she was around, but…” Gendry shrugged, throwing the cloth back over the armor. “I expect the queen’s knees will give out once she sees you in all of that.”

 

Jon found it inappropriately difficult to stifle a laugh, though managed to keep it civil. “It’s more than I could have asked for,” Jon mused, sincerely taken aback by the craft, his eyes only briefly regarding the cloaked figure besides his new armor.

 

Gendry noticed, then began to guide Jon away. “ _ That _ you’ll have to wait to see. When do you expect to leave?”

 

“Within a few days at the latest. Perhaps sooner if Daenerys is feeling well enough,” Jon said with a bit of discomfort at the reminder that she would be in the midst of battle at all. He distracted himself by watching as the smiths buzzed around the room and at their stations forging daggers and shields alike. The bulk of their dragonglass had been abandoned at Winterfell aside from those who had managed to salvage what they already had, which was another disadvantage for them.

 

“You weren’t there to see Arya off,” Jon noted inquisitively, his eyes searching Gendry’s for any sign of remorse.

 

Gendry looked down with a small, brief grin before looking back to Jon. “She came to me earlier.”

 

It was all that Jon needed to know and then some, his mind wandering into territory he didn’t wish to think about, so he thanked Gendry for all of his remarkable work and saw his way out.

 

\---

 

As Jon cut through the cliffside, the snow beneath his feet crunching and caving with each heave of his steps, his eyes became fixed upon a fleet of ships not far in the distance and approaching the island. His eyes widened, unable to make out the sigil upon the masts in the bleak mist, and he quickened his pace as best he could muster to seek closer ground.

 

As the winds drew the ships in closer, Jon was able to recognize the emblazoned fiery heart contrasted against the grey skies. It was as Bran had promised, and what Jon could assume Varys had been referring to. His stomach swirling, he trudged back into the castle, marching with a purpose until he reached the main hall where he found Dany and Sansa mingling.

 

“What is she doing here?” Davos’s raging, deep voice echoed behind him and stopped Jon in his tracks while Dany and Sansa turned their attention to the sudden uproar amidst their conversation. Davos’s hand was readily gripped firmly around his dagger, his brow creased in fury. When he was close enough, Jon turned and grasped his arm securely and watched him with apprehension.

 

“We are not to execute her. Bran said she was coming here for a greater purpose. If that proves false...we’ll do what needs to be done,” Jon said cautiously with a forced ease, to which Davos backed down.

 

“Who are we speaking of?” Dany asked speculatively, she and Sansa rising from their table.

 

“Lady Melisandre is about to make landfall. She has brought a fleet with her, but for what I’m uncertain,” Jon explained.

 

“I’ll see to it that she is escorted properly,” Dany announced while she exited in search of her guards.

 

\---

 

They convened in the throne room, Jon standing beside Dany with his hands collected behind him. The usual crowd joined them and before long, Melisandre came within sight, surrounded by Qhono and the Dothraki. Her fiery red hair and garb could not be mistaken from miles away and it almost seemed to illuminate the damp room. Her arms were hidden beneath a thick, red cloak. Davos glared indignantly at her, a ferocity Jon hadn’t seen in the man since he promised to execute Melisandre by his own will last she was in the north.

 

Melisandre’s sorrowful, gleaming eyes acknowledged each of them as she came to bow. The room had fallen eerily quiet.

 

“Lady Melisandre. You’ve traveled long and far; last I knew you had sailed for Volantis,” Dany said curiously.

 

“I had, Your Grace.” Melisandre’s eyes flickered between Dany and Jon, returning to Dany as she continued. “I admit I am happy to see you alive and well; Lord Varys suggested you would be otherwise upon my return to Westeros.”

 

Dany set her teeth and became visibly troubled before becoming poised once more. “He was nearly successful. He lost his life for it.”

 

A small pause allowed Dany to swallow back the knot that bunched up in her throat. Melisandre nodded once; her composure made Dany wonder if she had expected the demise of Varys. “The last we spoke I advised calling upon Jon Snow. I’m pleased to know it has worked out well for the both of you.”

 

The familiarity in her voice made Jon’s eyes narrow suspiciously, though Dany remained collected with the exception of a small smile in reminiscence of the day Jon Snow had once stood where Melisandre was now. He had been determined and stubborn and had the inconceivable ability to ruffle her feathers as he had, which had thwarted her long after.

 

“It has. What brings you all this way?”

 

The red woman turned halfway as if unsure of the presence of all the others in the room, then returned her attention to Jon. “Lord Snow; I have not forgotten your last words to me. But I promised that I would be able to help you win the great war, and it is what brings me here today despite your vow.”

 

Jon clenched his jaw; Dany turned her head to see him a moment and then returned her attention to Melisandre. She had been unaware of said meeting but mentally reminded herself to ask him about it later.

 

Melisandre rotated, making eye contact with Qhono and with a small nod he took a few paces toward her, his eyes hard and threatening as she took a sheathed longsword from him. Melisandre held it before her and, slowly, after Dany gestured for her men to stand down, stood before the stairs. As she unsheathed the sword, the piercing shrill of metal rebounded off the stone walls and back into their ears.

 

Her large eyes found Jon’s as she delicately held the length of the sword in her upturned palms the shrouded beams of light trying to break into the room gleaming against the steel. “ _ There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him _ ,” she recited, the smallest hint of a hopeful smile swelling onto her full lips.

 

“Is this yet another prophecy you’ve come to bring me, my lady?” Jon asked dryly, his eyes steeled.

 

“I have seen your future in the flames,  _ Your Grace _ . Both of yours as R’hllor has intended,” her eyes darted over to Dany before returning to Jon. No one else dared speak, though Davos was restless where he stood.

 

“Lord Varys’s time has come to an end, but not before providing me with the knowledge of who you truly are, Aegon. You are Azor Ahai reborn, and I bring forth to you the sword Lightbringer. As reads the prophecy, a sword thrice forged and a great sacrifice need be made to set the blade afire. He who wields it will bring the dawn.” The volume of her voice remained level, yet she became cautiously enthusiastic. “I bring you the valyrian steel once belonging to Ned Stark - Ice. Twice forged into King Joffrey’s sword, Widow’s Wail, then renamed as Oathkeeper by Brienne of Tarth. Thrice forged after the Lord of Light guided me to Winterfell, and thus I brought it back to Asshai where its final revision took place.”

 

At the utter of Ice, Jon had slowly descended the stairs, his brows casting a shadow over his eyes as he came to gawk at the blade held in her steady hands. The silence in the room was otherwise palpable. He brought his his eyes up to hers again, swallowing hard. It looked nothing like his father’s sword any longer, but yet the girth of Ice was unchanged.  “How do I know you speak the truth? How many times have your prophecies proven false and how many died because of it?”

 

Melisandre became visibly shaken, but was quick to recollect herself, averting her eyes to the floor briefly. There was a long pause to which Jon grew agitated; the silence, to him, caused him to doubt her further. “I am sure of this because R’hllor has allowed me to see the Princess That Was Promised.”

 

Jon’s eyes narrowed and Dany shifted in her seat, coming to remember that Tyrion had once mentioned to her of another red priestess, Kinvara, who once visited Meereen to deliver the same prophecy. Only when Dany had later arrived to Dragonstone, Melisandre had revived the prophecy once more, though was ambiguous in the context of its meaning. Jon swiveled on his heel to follow Melisandre’s gaze toward Dany.

 

A wider smile graced the red woman’s face now in the midst of their confusion. “Forgive me if the revelation unsettles you, but I am referring to the child you carry in your womb, Your Grace.”

 

Dany’s breath hitched in her throat and Jon’s face softened greatly as their eyes locked. The idea that their secret was now common knowledge much against their wishes was most undesirable, but the image of a daughter flooded their minds before anything else. The room was quick to fill with gasps and murmurs.

 

Slowly Jon came to an uneasy realization, and he hoped he was wrong to wonder as he returned to Melisandre. “And what sacrifice does your fire god require?”

 

Her lips parted and she gently thrust the longsword into Jon’s hands. “The last Azor Ahai who lived sacrificed his wife by plunging his blade deep into her chest. From there her soul engulfed it in flames and he defeated the dead and became renowned as the last hero.”

 

The ache in Jon’s chest stretched to his arms as he held the blade before him, not daring to make eye contact with Dany now. He wouldn’t, he  _ couldn’t _ ...he loved her, and the baby would die. He stared wide-eyed and full of fear at Melisandre, the first time he truly became paralyzed by her presence and he suddenly wished they hadn’t answered her summoning.

 

“You need not worry about making as drastic an atonement, Your Grace. You may breathe easy knowing it will not be a loved one you must sacrifice,” she assured, collecting her hands before her.

 

He couldn’t deny that the relief that washed over him then nearly took over him, and he had to physically steady himself to prevent from crumbling.

 

“It is I who will give my life to R’hllor in exchange for the dawn, and for your lives.” The calmness of her voice stunned everyone present.

 

Jon slowly shook his head. “What if it doesn’t work?” He demanded gruffly.

 

She smiled gently. “It will. I can prove it here and now.” When she began to peel back layers of her robe, Jon commanded her to stop, to which she obeyed.

 

“I...need time to understand all of this,” he explained quietly. “It won’t be long before we leave for King’s Landing. If Queen Daenerys consents to housing you until then…,” he looked over his shoulder to Dany, who considered him and Melisandre for a moment before she nodded her approval.

 

“There is one final gift to bestow upon you,” Melisandre proclaimed. “Lord Varys expressed that you suffered heavy losses and called for aid, and I have brought just that. I have summoned the one thousand soldiers of the Fiery Hand of the Free Cities of Essos to accompany your journey to King’s Landing. It is the Lord’s will that has called upon them to defend the sanctity that is Azor Ahai; it consists of all the forces that we carry. One thousand soldiers; never more, and never less.”

 

Jon exhaled quietly, the imbalance of his distrust of her and the burden to alleviate that weighing heavily on him. “Thank you. Truly. We’ve only recently sent ravens to the northern kingdoms to pull for any reinforcements they may have left and are willing to offer.”

 

Melisandre bowed slightly. “Daenerys Targaryen is our queen, and you are Azor Ahai reborn. Together you are ice and fire; this war could not be won without the other. Should you come to an understanding before our leave, I will present myself to you when that time comes.”

 

There was a beat before Jon nodded at her and the Dothraki escorted her out of the room to find chambers to stay in. The moment she was absent, the people stirred and turned to speak with those they couldn’t earlier. Jon sighed heavily, surprising himself when it came out shuddering. His chest grew tight again and his heart pounded frantically on its constricting walls, his skin growing fervently clammy. With each affirmation of Dany’s pregnancy, he found himself growing panicked and wrought with dread knowing Dany would be in the center of battle. It was hypocritical, he knew, to harbor such feelings when he had assured Dany that Bran’s visions of the baby were rooted in the future’s outcome, but once he allowed his mind to welcome the unfavorable thoughts, it managed to fester and convince him that his worries were warranted.

 

He was broken out of his delerium when Dany’s hand gently enclosed around his elbow, and he turned over his shoulder to flash her a melancholy smile and he hated that he was so transparent in that moment.

 

“What’s bothering you?” She murmured quietly, keeping the conversation away from prying ears.

 

He sheathed Lightbringer before rotating to face her, trying his best now to wear a sincere smile, but she wasn’t fooled. She could read him like an open book now. “What isn’t?”

 

Her dark brows raised and craned into that of anguish for him, snaking her arm to link with his as they slowly stepped down the stairs. The room had begun to empty, but Sansa soon came to stand before them, her expression revealing in the exhilaration of the news of the child. Her arms reached to pull Jon into a tight hug, holding him at arm’s length a moment before turning to Dany. As their friendship was still only budding, there was a small pause of awkward uncertainty before she came to embrace Dany, who reciprocated in a friendly and welcoming manner.

 

“I don’t expect that was how you would have wanted everyone to find out, if at all…” Sansa muttered.

  
“We only found out ourselves just days ago,” Dany explained lightly. “We were wanting to wait until after King’s Landing, but…”

 

It was evident that Sansa was strained in expressing her enthusiasm, to which Jon felt a sudden pang of guilt in his stomach as she reveled in her optimism. The prospect of his child not surviving this war caused him heartache that he could feel deep within the walls of his chest, and his head began to reflect as much.

 

Jorah then joined them and he gathered Dany’s hands in his, his soulful eyes glistening. “Khaleesi. I wish I had the proper words to convey how happy I am for you. For the both of you,” he rejoiced, and Jon could only respond with the slightest, forced smile.

 

“Will you all excuse me?” It was less a question to be granted and more of a declaration of Jon’s retreat. Sansa’s face fell and she looked at Dany, who shook her head in response, unsure of what prompted him to make his abrupt leave.

 

Jon found a dark secluded hall as the buzz of voices behind him quickly simmered down the further he went. He leaned his back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes while he worked on evening the pace of his jagged breaths. His chest heaved and he concentrated on putting his mind toward anything else that would distract his despondent reflections. Before he could stop it, wetness collected beneath his eyelids and spilled down his cheeks. He opened his eyes and wiped away furiously at his cheeks, his skeleton shivering beneath the layers.

 

He would never forgive himself if something happened to Dany and subsequently the baby; the child that she had always longed for but believed would never come to be; the family he never had and but sought eagerly as a child and came to accept it would forever remain a distant and abandoned possibility after reciting his vows in the Night’s Watch. That was aside from the fact that he spent all his days as a lowly bastard; what woman would have wished to lay with him and wish to bear  _ him _ a child?

 

Now that they were being granted their once-discarded desires, Jon was overcome with grief that it may slip through his fingers and he was helpless to catch it. He could hear the chime of voices growing closer, utterings of the future princess and how the realm would come to be more united than ever before, and he made way to no particular destination. He wished Arya had been here; it had been hideously unfair that she was away at sea and was unaware of all that unfolded today. He wished she were here to spar with him so he could release some of his tensions into Longclaw, or perhaps get a feel for Lightbringer that was now weighing down on his hip.

 

With his eyes cast down, he looked up to find Tormund and Beric isolated and chatting quietly between themselves beside the blazing hearth of the long hall. Somehow their presence soothed him, so when they caught sight of him, he came to sit in their company.

 

Tormund’s wild eyes studied him a long moment, and Beric perched quietly. “You don’t look happy,” Tormund noted. “What is that on your face?”

 

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle, drying the remnants of his own tears against the furs at his shoulders. When he said nothing, Tormund leaned forward to catch a glimpse of Jon’s downturned face until he was forced to make eye contact with the icy blue eyes.

 

“I’ve fought and killed an army of dead men and took a knife in the heart from my own brothers, and yet somehow the idea of a child frightens me most,” Jon said quietly, his voice graveled and rough.

 

Tormund’s bushy, fiery red brows lifted and he sat back a bit. “It is not the child that frightens you, but what might happen to that child.”

 

After a moment, Jon nodded solemnly, averting his eyes again. As if his thoughts could be heard from afar, Ghost had quietly padded into the room and made Jon flinch when his snout nuzzled at his arm. He buried his hand in a thick tuft of warm fur as the wolf laid loyally at his feet.

 

“The Lord of Light is true to his word. Something like this is far too extravagant and paramount to be wrong,” Beric’s smooth voice rang.

 

Jon looked up at him. “I wish I had the same faith. Half of me is fearful that it is true while the other finds it hard to trust a priestess who has read prophecies wrong on far too many occasions.”

 

“That may be so, but prophecies are dangerous things. Over time they become misinterpreted and lose their true meaning, but the Fiery Hand has brought the entirety of their militia to support the new coming of the last hero, Azor Ahai. They’re sacred soldiers that are trusted to defend the Red Temples of R’hllor. To forfeit that in order to serve a greater purpose is a substantial cost,” Beric explained.

 

Jon watched him under his brow, his fingers idly scratching the top of Ghost’s head as the wolf fought closing his eyes.

 

“You fucked the dragon queen,” Tormund wheezed discreetly but his sudden elation made Jon laugh through his nose, bringing his other hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Tormund clapped Jon’s back hard and a loud roar escaped the wild man as he threw his head back at Jon’s modesty.

 

Beric smiled and sighed at the behavior. Once Tormund caught his breath again, he leaned forward until he was a mere few inches from Jon’s face, his expression contorted in an exaggerated bewilderment. “How did you do it with such a tiny pecker?”

 

Again, his laugh bellowed along the halls, and Jon did his best to conceal a grin, but always managed to fall prey to Tormund’s jests. Perhaps it was why he took comfort in his presence, knowing that he never took anything all too seriously, a stark contrast to himself.

 

After a while, a silence fell and then Tormund’s face eased. “I’m not one to get sentimental,” he began, to which Jon shot him a doubtful look; he had been so attached to Brienne of Tarth when she was alive, Jon wondered if his heart would stop whenever she breathed anywhere near his proximity. “You will make a wonderful father and an exemplary mentor. You’re going to be a fucking  _ king _ , for fuck’s sake! I don’t blame you for your weak knees, little crow. Especially if  _ that _ were to be my queen.”

 

Tormund sat back in his seat and a knowing smirk stretched across his bearded face, to which Jon then returned. “If we survive.”

 

A hard wallop to his arm just then took the breath from him, and now Tormund’s angry brows were furrowed. “You’re Aegon fucking Targaryen. You’re Jon  _ fucking _ Snow. You remember when the red woman brought you back to us, and I said everyone thought you were some kind of god? Well, they weren’t wrong. You’re a  _ prophetic  _ god. Nobody wants to follow a gloomy, sulking god. Where is that damned Edd when you need him? He could’ve talked some sense into you. Say it again and it’ll be your pretty face next time.”

 

Jon snorted much to his objection, and a satisfied smile pulled the coarse mustache across Tormund’s face. “That’s much better. Now, let me get my hands on that bastard,” he nodded to Lightbringer.

 

\---

 

Beric had left and Jon and Tormund found themselves on the cliff side, the wind amicable in time for their swordplay. Tormund wielded Lightbringer in his hands, holding it upright and his head craned to see its point. “This is a beautiful blade, and damned heavy.” With a few wide figures he slashed into the air.

 

“My father’s sword was nearly taller than he was,” Jon said, eyes squinting through the bitter biting of the cold against him.

 

Tormund returned the sword to Jon’s hands and it was only in clearer light that Jon’s eyes traveled the beauty of the steel. The pommel was diamond in shape, gold grooves inlaid within the grip and into the upturned crossguard that mimicked the shape of flames. Rubies were encrusted, born from a large gem at the pommel and encircled the grip. The blade was longer than even Longclaw, and it took fortitude to wield it properly.

 

Reaching to his hip, Tormund extracted the curved blade of his kopis. Jon gave him a wry look while he secured his footing. Tormund cocked his head briefly. “It’s no king’s sword, but it’ll do.”

 

Tormund launched with a heave and Jon thrust Lightbringer forward, meeting his blackened blade and the weight of his longsword pushing the kopis downward. They reset and Tormund stretched out his arm, the heft of Lightbringer having flexed his arm into an unnatural position.

 

Jon was the first to strike this time, to which Tormund ducked and Jon swiveled on his heel, mindful of the snow beneath his feet as he did so. Tormund circled his arm backward, his body following and Jon lurched his arms upward as he had crouched to avoid a split ear. He grunted against Tormund’s strength, rising to his feet and their blades screeched as they rebound off one another.

 

Their breath could be seen puffing small, still clouds before them. From above, Melisandre peered out her window down upon them, a gratified smile pulling the corner of her lip as she did so. Jon ran to Tormund, ducking as the kopis swung dangerously close to the top of his head and he halted the sword before it could touch Tormund’s leg.

 

Tormund released a mocking laugh in the precision. When Jon got to his feet again, grinning through increasingly shallow breaths, Tormund raised both arms into the air and thrust his blade downward, to which Jon had to throw himself backward and whipped Lightbringer against the steel until it was knocked from Tormund’s hands. The icy blue eyes widened and Jon facetiously thrust the point of his sword forward, only prodding his winter pelts.

 

Tormund raised his hands with a feigned mercy. “You’re a mad man,” he quipped, his gloved hand grabbing the blade and shifting it upward as he took a few paces toward Jon. Jon watched him warily, and in a swift motion Tormund lunged forward and withdrew Longclaw from Jon’s hip, sidestepping as the two Valyrian steel swords clashed and the sound penetrated the air.

 

“Albeit a  _ distracted _ one!” Tormund exclaimed, their arms working to rebound against one another. Tormund threw himself hard several times, Jon almost struggling to keep his footing as he was ushered backwards in the depths of the snow. Finally, his breathing ragged, he brought Lightbringer mere inches from his own face to deflect as Longclaw came crashing near the hilt and the blunt side knocked into his brow bone with a force that broke the skin and a bright white light flashed before his eyes.

 

Tormund’s scoffed and went to help his friend, but Jon collected himself and in Tormund’s vulnerability, crashed his blade against his and mimicked the same agility, pushing him further and further back as warm blood began to drip through his eyelashes.

 

“ _ HA! _ ” Tormund grinned at Jon’s tenacity, parrying fiercely until Jon brought back his arms and forced all of his weight down and Tormund fell with Longclaw.

 

Exasperated, Jon wiped at the throbbing of his brow, the blood seeping into the leather of his gloves and painting speckles of red in the fresh white fluff below him. He sheathed Lightbringer and rested his hands on his knees before assisting a cackling Tormund back onto his feet. He returned Longclaw to him and gawked at Jon’s wound.

 

“Don’t let that fester, we don’t want the chosen one succumbing to a flesh wound,” Tormund poked, his elbow jamming into Jon’s ribs.

 

“Fuck off,” Jon breathed with a pant of a chuckle, feeling a slow stream of warmth oozing down the side of his face.

 

Tormund collected his korpis from somewhere deep within the snow and together they made their way back into the castle, making their excuses as Jon began heading for his chambers to clean up his face.

 

“Jon,” Dany’s voice called from behind, to which he stopped and turned to acknowledge her.

 

It seemed she was ready to say something as she stopped before him, her eyebrows knitting together at the sight of the vibrant red stretching from the black of his eyebrow to along his cheek.

 

“Tormund is a little audacious with a sword,” he muttered.

 

Her eyes lingered on his flushed face a second longer before she escorted him down the remainder of the hall to her chambers. Closing the door behind her, he watched her curiously while she stood before the basin of freshly warmed water and soaked a cloth in it. When she returned to him, she silently walked him to sit at the edge of her bed and began to dab away the blood staining his pale skin, easing her pressure when she came upon his brow. 

 

Still, he winced slightly, the pain orbiting his eye below. “May I ask what your feelings have been like these past few days?” Her voice was gentle and not greedy; he had anticipated this conversation, but concurrently wished to avoid it. Her free hand held his head steady as she cleaned the wound, small bits of blood still freshly oozing.

 

So he cleared his throat and confessed all of his fears and why putting so much faith in Melisandre poised a shaky prospect. When he came to explain how the princess Shireen had perished under Melisandre’s order, Dany’s hand halted, adding a little pressure to cease the bleeding.

 

“And nothing came of it?” She asked quietly.

 

“She thought it would aid Stannis in his fight against the Boltons. She was wrong and a child burned alive because of it. She was like a daughter to Ser Davos,” he said, his voice becoming strained. 

 

“But she is aware of our child. Our  _ daughter _ . I’ve never been one to hold faith in any god, but something is telling me to trust her, much as I wish not to,” she said.

 

Jon lifted his head a little to look at her as she concentrated on cleansing him. “The worst that would happen is that nothing that she promised comes to light. I could do without prophecies.”

 

A small smile tugged her lips while his eyes searched her. “Are you not afraid? Is it only me?”

 

When she was satisfied with her work, she set aside the cloth and met his gaze with woeful eyes. “I’m frightened to death.”

 

Sighing, his arms reached forward and pulled her closer to him and she cradled his head against her breast, her cheek resting atop his head. He took solace in the beating of her heart against his ear, his arms tight around her.

 

Pulling back, she leaned her forehead against his. He hesitated before asking something he had been wondering to himself. “What would you like to call her?”

 

Dany stared back into the dark pools of his eyes. “Let us wait until we win the war and we have clearer heads. I’m too afraid yet to commit to any promises,” she whispered, her voice burdened. His hand reached up to brush along her neck and pulled her down to him in a sweet kiss, and they stayed like this for as long as time would permit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Azor Ahai prophecy was one I started contemplating when I first thought to write this story months ago. There are some REALLY cool theories regarding its meaning, and I went with a more direct translation. Many people think its more metaphorical, that Jon himself is Lightbringer (with Rhaegar as Azor Ahai and Lyanna was his Nissa Nissa/sacrificed love), that Dany's dragons are Lightbringer, that AA/The Last Hero/The Prince(ess) Who was Promised are either all the same person or separate entities. The list goes on and this is the interpretation I'm going to take, especially since it was abandoned in the show! Hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> P.S. Jon x Tormund bromance is far too fun to write <3


	16. Part XVI - On the Eve of Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei torments Tyrion. Arya, the Hound and Jaime grow nearer King's Landing. Sansa and Theon share tender words. A farewell feast is had.

Cersei woke that morning to dreary skies; the darkness that winter cast upon them threatened to swallow the sun whole only days ago, and now was so engulfed not a ray of light could be seen. Recently one evening, Euron had approached her, questioned why she had not been compliant in accepting his advances for so long. She had warned him that if he were to speak to her in the manner again, she would have his hands cut off, reminding him that a queen did as she pleased and that the since-defunct pregnancy made her relentlessly ill. 

 

She could see it in his eyes that he didn’t quite trust her any longer, but he would never say it out loud. The bulk of the clothing she wore kept her flattening stomach well-hidden, but she hadn’t the mind to make a conscious attempt to hide it any longer.

 

Euron only pushed the matter forward as was his character, having inviting himself into her chambers without notice, to the point of needing the Mountain to become involved and show him out of her quarters. Euron’s eyes had reflected something unhinged in that moment, and from then on she posted extra guards outside her bed chambers.

 

Tyrion hadn’t been allowed outside of his cell much since arriving, and when he did he was only faced with taunts and japes from his sister or Euron, though even he managed to creep beneath Cersei’s skin at times. His skin clung loser to his bones having only been fed a bare minimum twice daily and with nothing in between. His stone cell reeked of piss and shit and only a couple times during the week did a reluctant maid get orders from Cersei to clean up after him. When she did, he talked her ear off, though most of it was apologies that the nameless maid had to undertake such a vile task.

 

Never did she speak and never did she make eye contact with him, as kind as he was to her. He supposed it was his appearance, and the thinning of his frame was doing him no favors in that regard. Most of the time he spent thinking of all of the different ways to kill Cersei. Knowing he would be as successful as Euron’s attempts to bed her, it was a mostly fruitless imaginings. The rest of him replayed the image of Missandei’s murder in his head, cycling ruthlessly as vivid as the night it happened. He hated himself for it; for never taking the time to learn how to wield a weapon, and that he had been reduced to begging the Ironborn man that commited the crime. Her blood had sprayed along his face and it was in his moment of helplessness and failure that a cloth was stuffed into his mouth and he was dragged out to Euron’s ship.

 

Presently he yearned for daylight even though he had likely seen the last of it for some time. The most mundane things that he took for granted he now revered in a new light. He wished for a good book; it had been an age since his eyes were last pleasured with text. It had been an age since he was last pleasured  _ at all _ .

 

What did he become and how did he get here? The last couple of years had been a blur, wine only a small counterpart. As he sat against the stone walls, barely moving for fear of losing the heat it absorbed from his body, there was a familiar jingle of keys echoing along the stairwell. Before he would jump at the sound, hopeful that he could sway the keeper of the keys to free him even if for five minutes, but the old man was non-compliant and simply pretended Tyrion didn’t exist.

 

Now, he only sat and watched as the keeper shuffled about, but a sudden turn made Tyrion raise his eyes. The key was jammed into the lock and with a long twist, his door opened.

 

“Come, dwarf. The queen summons you,” his jagged, sullen voice said. Had his wrists not been bound he would have gladly pummeled the man for always referring to him as ‘dwarf’ with the utmost disgust on his tongue.

 

He followed the keeper up the stairs, and though the sun had taken shelter behind the thick masses of gray clouds, the natural light that met his eyes caused him to squeeze them shut in the vibrance. When they entered the throne room, Cersei was standing before the throne in a heated but eager discussion with Qyburn. Her only other company was her queensguard.

 

As she came to realize the doors swung open, Cersei and her hand looked over to acknowledge their arrival, cutting their discussion short. When Tyrion got closer he could hear the quivering breath through her nose, her teeth mashed so hard her muscles protruded, but she looked thrilled...almost hysterical. The keeper of keys left them and Tyrion stood there awkwardly, unsure of her intentions or what he was expected to do next.

 

“Little brother,” she breathed with feign affection. “You will remain above ground until the Targaryen bitch descends upon the city. I will laugh while you cry watching the silver-haired cunt die. With any luck, she will suffer, perhaps  _ burn alive _ ,” her eyes bulged in enunciation of the last part, but Tyrion didn’t flinch. “Wouldn’t that be ironic?” She asked hypothetically.

 

Internally his blood was scorching, but he needed to temper his indignation. Cersei was only trying to get a rise out of him, and though it was working, he would not give in to her desires. “It will be you who burns, dear sister. Not her.” His voice remained collected despite the rage that had begun to fuel him, and the double meaning that Cersei would not grasp entertained him. Daenerys Targaryen, the unburnt. Unlike with his sister, each of Daenerys’s titles and honors were bestowed upon her because she earned them.

 

He was aware of what came next and his eyes closed before the Mountain could backhand him across his cheek, causing his stunted body to be thrown in a twist to the floor. Somehow, he suppressed a howl when the steel of the gauntlet broke his skin. Instead, he clenched his teeth shut, once again refusing Cersei the gratification.

 

When he returned to his feet, he brought his bonded wrists to his face and wiped at the bleeding laceration across his cheek, but remained otherwise unbothered before her. He tilted his chin up to see her now, and the revulsion painted along her tired face had him convinced she would give the order to behead him.

 

“Please escort Lord Tyrion to his new room where he will be reminded what happens when foreign whores enter the city unwelcomed.”

 

Her queensguard took him with an unnecessary force and stowed him away in a higher level room of the keep to await his queen’s arrival. He was confused as to why he was being granted even a speck of luxury - the room was mostly barren but it proved a rich improvement from the frozen stone cave that was his cellar. It smelled of fresh linens though it was unused, but the hint of something foul also seeped into his nose that he couldn’t quite place; the furniture had been stripped from the room and all that remained was a bed that could fit twenty of him. After the guard left him to be, undoubtedly posted outside his door, he slowly walked further into the room.

 

Somehow, it triggered a flush of emotion - the last time he had been here was the night he killed his father and his lover and he had then sailed away with Varys. As his mind began to wander, his eyes traveled the length of the room further, landing on a splintered wooden table that clashed horribly with the rest of the lavishly well-kept room. It was an unusual bit of decor and he was strangely drawn to it.

 

His eyes narrowed suspiciously; the chest itself was worn and wooden and looked as if it had been once covered in mud and grime, clad with two iron fastenings that were painted with rust. Hesitantly he approached, lifting its creaking top at an arms length until it rested on the wall behind it. He peered inside - within it were a collection of splintered human bones, clearly fragmented to be stuffed in its cramped quarters, stained from bodily fluids of old. His eyes fell wide and his brows creased deep-set lines within his skin and he came to the realization of whose body they once belonged to the moment the golden chain came into view - the necklace he had once gifted to Shae and later murdered her with. In a jolt his body clamored backwards and thumped his head against the bed post behind him.

 

Desperately he crawled backwards on his hands, gasping for clean air and clenching his eyes shut as if it would wash the image away. His stomach churned violently, threatening to empty its lackluster contents at any given time. He struggled to his feet and swiveled around to throw open the door, but it had been locked from the outside. Trapped. He banged on it furiously with his fists and screamed for someone to release him, but to no avail. Slowly, with his head hung, he turned and leaned his back against the door, bringing his eyes upward from deep under his brow to where the chest lay. His chin quivered; first with great sadness, then a deep-rooted rage.

 

When he was able to compose himself enough to use his legs again, he scurried over to one of the large windows, hiking up onto the stool that sat in front of a fine looking glass, and slowly craned forward. With his hands bracing against the ledge, he looked down into the pit of grey mass so impenetrable he couldn’t see the pavement below. But his view gave him the answer he had been seeking: it would be too great a length to fall, and undoubtedly he would die the moment his body collided with whatever lay below his chambers. Looking out ahead, he could just make out the top half peaks of the city walls, fresh snow having only begun to fall listlessly to coat them further.

 

Defeated, he hopped down from his perch and went back to the chest, clamping it shut and gagging at the stench that followed the force. It had been many moons since Shae’s body had decayed, and he didn’t expect that it had been treated favorably once she had been found in his father’s bed. If he had half a mind, he would have chucked the thing out the window, but he would surely meet his demise if he dared show any resistance to Cersei’s sadistic ways. He expected death, but he would not surrender under his cruel sister’s terms.

 

For now, he took comfort wrapped in the thick quilt of the bed, relishing in the more pleasant memories he and Shae had once shared. And then he would wallow in his grief of what was, what could have been, what is, and how he failed his queen… and perhaps, that Daenerys would reign merciless dragonfire upon his sister.

 

\---

 

As winter swallowed the continent in its ruthless frost, Arya, the Hound and Jaime made swift work of their travels.

 

They had made landfall the previous evening and found shelter in the shadows of tree-cover until the lingering daylight was extinguished. They kept to mostly barren lands, and used their winter layers to disguise their faces. It was unlikely they would be recognized in the eastern Crownlands, but no chance could be spared.

 

They weren’t too far off now, nestled somewhere between Duskendale and Rosby. Food was sparse so as to not weigh them down. Arya had brought along her satchel of faces, and after horrified reactions from both Jaime and the Hound, had been the one to scout small local taverns to ensure they would be safe to sup in under disguise. They kept to less-frequented taverns to avoid questioning, but whenever anyone grew suspicious, they were able to pass themselves off as northern survivors seeking refuge within the walls of King’s Landing.

 

At that response many of them guffawed in their faces, commenting that the city was all but bursting to the castle walls with near one million small folk and refugees inhabiting it. This drew up further concern amongst them; if the Night King were to overrun them all, they stood no chance should he recruit even half of what King’s Landing had to offer.

 

The closer they grew to the city, the further Jaime pulled the hood of his cloak to shadow his face. By this point he feared he would be recognized, though he was grateful that the roads were far less populated without the warm climate.

 

“What’s the plan once we reach the perimeter?” Arya asked Jaime, her eyes squinting through the gail. The view before them was an open field, littered with dying trees and snow dusting across their path.

 

“If it’s as swamped as folk keep saying it is, we may have a good chance at getting in without being caught out. I’m less worried about myself; I’ll have to be seen in order to get into the Red Keep,” he said, panting as they trampled through the shin-length snow. “You could easily get in with those,” he nodded to her satchel. “Just be sure your weapons are out of sight or they may kill you on the spot. No small folk carry longswords, least of all Valyrian steel.”

 

Arya need not worry about that - her thick winter coat of lambskin covered the length of her, and her weapons were well hidden beneath it. But still, she had an alternate plan. “I’m going in through the passages. You should come with me; I don’t think the gold cloaks will take to kindly to seeing your face again after leaving Cersei.”

 

Jaime glanced at her. “I fulfilled my promise to ride for Winterfell to defeat the dead, that’s entirely different than a betrayal.”

 

“Are you just as mad as your fucking sister?” The Hound growled. “The only person Cersei cares about is Cersei. Just like your cunt son, Joffrey.”

 

Jaime stopped walking suddenly, coming to bring his stern face within inches of the Hound’s face and his eyes hard. The Hound’s hand already had his dagger half unsheathed. “What’re you going to do, hm?”

 

Arya was almost inclined to let them get it out of their systems, but they hadn’t the time to waste. “If either of you ruin this and give us away, I’ll be sure to have both your heads. I don’t need either of you to help me, anyway,” she scowled, turning around to continue on to their destination.

 

For a beat longer they stared each other down, and then slowly the Hound shoved his dagger back into its scabbard and followed Arya’s tracks, Jaime eventually trailing behind.

 

“I’m going with you,” the Hound grumbled, catching up to walk beside her. She frowned and looked up at him.

 

“You’re too slow and far too loud,” she protested. “I can do this on my own-”

 

The shock of his grip around her arm forced her to turn, moving to free herself until she read something in his eyes that she hadn’t recognized before. When he spoke again, how voice was more of a growl, angry and venomous. Jaime stopped, watching. “You think this is a game, girl? You think you’re the bravest person alive, do you? You’ve not seen the likes of  _ them _ . I’ve seen them, I’ve  _ fought _ them; they are the embodiment of death. Nothing in this shit world south of the Wall knows what’s coming for them. You wouldn’t last alone, especially not buried in fucking tunnels under the Red Keep.”

 

Arya eased the tension in her face, gawked unsurely at him a beat longer before tugging her arm out of his grip. “Fine. But if they get you first, I won’t be the one to save you,” she said flatly, turning once more to focus on the objective ahead. The Hound grunted, shaking his head and accompanied behind her. Jaime watched before he followed them, perplexed by their outlandish relationship, but would swear that Arya wore a smile of gratification when she wasn’t within eyesight of their other companion.

 

\---

 

It had been too long since Jon had last seen Sam, both of them otherwise preoccupied by all that had been unfolding since their arrival at Dragonstone. Sam spent most of his time stashed away with Bran, perusing the old library and assisting in linking their ancestor’s histories together while mapping out current events. When he wasn’t doing that, he was tending to Little Sam, learning how to properly care for him as a motherless child. Several northern women had developed an affinity for Sam, and a particular affection for the little boy, who was only beginning to grasp the idea that his mother would not return to him. In this, Sam gained gentle offerings of helping hands to which he accepted a bit sheepishly.

 

As they sat together at one of the long tables for their goodbye feast before their departure on the morrow, each of them adorned with goblets of mead, Sam informed Jon of all of this. Little Sam sat in his father’s arms, his body loose and relaxed and eyelids half fallen even in the bellowing of their fellow guests.

 

“He’s growing fast,” Jon noted, mentally imagining his daughter in his own arms, only then realizing he had never even so much as  _ held _ a child in his lifetime. But he quickly abandoned the idea, refusing to solidify such images until the war was over, much as it pained him to do so.

 

“Too fast for my liking. He’s beginning to ask questions,” Sam said, looking down at the boy who had given up and was falling limp in his lap now.

 

Jon’s eyes found Sam’s face, who thought the grief could be hidden if he tried hard enough. “I’m leaving Ghost with you.”

 

Sam’s head flew upward and he nearly began to sputter in protest, and Jon gave him a stern look. “N-no, you’ll need more protection than me here!”

 

“Sam,” Jon warned. “There’s a fair chance I’ll not return. It’s all I’ve thought about for the last...never mind, but it would make me feel a little better knowing he’s here with you. If anything should happen and the dead return north...”

 

“They won’t,” Sam refuted and then seemed to remember something. “But you’re the king. I mustn’t forget that.”

 

Jon glowered at him and Sam began to backtrack to assure him he didn’t mean anything derogatory by it, and Jon stomped his ridiculous assumptions before he could go further. The man seemed to revert to the less sure one he had met on Sam’s first day at Castle Black, thinking that Jon could ever be so offended.  “I’m your  _ friend _ , Sam. And as your friend, I’m insisting you accept my offer. You’ll keep each other safe whether I return or not.”

 

Sighing, Sam’s eyes began to glisten slightly, then turned his attention back to Little Sam. “I best get him to bed so we can see you all off tomorrow, then,” he announced as his voice cracked on him. A small smile twitched at Jon’s lips and he nodded as Sam carried away the boy to the quiet of their chambers. He collected his goblet, seeking to refill it as a kitchen maid walked by and did as much.

 

Over at another table, Sansa and Theon sat among the crowd of more rambunctious northmen, all of whom were shouting in conversation even when sitting mere inches away from one another. Tankards clashed and fists pounded into the sturdy wood beneath them to accentuate whatever passionate discussion they were making.

 

Sansa’s wine had gone mostly untouched; her nerves had plagued her within the last few hours with all of her loved ones going overseas while she would remain at Dragonstone. Theon sat silently across from her, hardly taking his eyes off of her. When she looked up to notice, a shy smile graced her then.

 

“Sansa Stark. I never would have thought you to become so full of sorrow,” he teased, smiling crookedly.

 

She shot him a mocking glare. “That’s because, for the longest time, I had nothing to mourn. Or I forgot how to.”

 

He sat there for a small while as his face softened before he came around the table to sit beside her, his legs straddling the wooden bench to face her properly. Slowly, he placed a gentle hand on her back, his thumb idly rubbing it in its spot.

 

“I love you,” Theon stated matter-of-factly as if he had said it a thousand times, only this was just his first.

 

Sansa’s head turned to look at him, her eyes seeking truth in his face, her lips parted open as if about to deny his own words. She wished she could; to tell him not now, not tonight, not before he would be sent off away with the possibility of never coming back. But her normally steely and impossible exterior diminished, as it had begun to over the course of the last couple of weeks.

 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he assured her, and she felt her heart palpitate, feeling all the fool for gaping like a hopeless girl. As the seconds ticked by, she averted her eyes downward and her face strained to gain its composure as her hand sought his. He squeezed it affectionately, and she accepted his offer to find somewhere more private as she struggled to keep the tears at bay. If anyone else noticed, she felt she would burst, and she hated that she felt as fragile as she had as a young girl.

 

Theon guided her along the crowd and Sansa managed to keep poised, but when they reached the privacy of the halls outside, she allowed the wetness to seep down her cheeks. Blindly she walked behind Theon without a destination in mind until he then turned to face her. His hands came to hold her face until he placed a ginger kiss on her lips, to which she ever so slowly returned, the feeling of a kiss being so intentional, soft, and free of pain was a foreign perception for her.

 

He pulled away from her and brought his hands down. “I should get some rest,” he said, gloom coating his decision.

 

After a second, Sansa could only nod, and when he began to walk away, she mentally slapped herself while he retreated further away. Her legs began to move numbly, nearly chasing after him now. 

 

“Theon,” she called, causing him to turn halfway, watching her curiously. When she was close enough, it was her that initiated the kiss, and his arms locked around her to hold her closer. She was afraid she didn’t know what she was doing; never in her life had she been in a consenting relationship, resulting in her becoming so repulsed even by the idea until she was smacked with an unexpected development of attraction for Theon. It was for the third time that night that she felt internally like the younger version of herself; naive, too sweet for this world, and dumbstruck when something wasn’t as she expected.

 

When she parted from him, they both shared a shaky breath. “I love you, too,” she whispered, the shadow of a timid smile daring to show itself.

 

Theon sighed contentedly, coming around to kiss her cheek and then back to see her. “Will you stay with me tonight?” He asked quietly. She understood the implication, or lack thereof - they spent several nights together, though only to take solace in one another’s company in these dark and trying times. Tonight was the pinnacle of trepidation on the eve of his endeavor, and she wouldn’t be spending it with herself.

 

She nodded and followed behind him, ready to spend their last waking hours in the safety of the Dragonstone walls.

 

\---

 

Tormund held the attention of most in his lively discussion, but it was hard to ignore. Ser Harry Strickland and his men, who had rejoined them the afternoon prior, and was unaware of the qualities of the freefolk, sat astonished at the brusqueness of the wild-eyed man. Already Tormund had, obnoxiously, reveled in that Jon had the ‘magical’ ability to impregnate Daenerys despite his ‘shortcomings’. Now he began to boast that he nearly defeated the future king in a sparring match, accentuating his point as his foot stomped onto the top of one of the tables and his arms swooped in wide circles. The northern lords watched the eccentric ginger man in a mix of skepticism and amusement, chartering heavy laughs on occasion.

 

Wyman Manderly scoffed and shook his head, silencing Tormund. “Jon Snow is one of the greatest swordsman that ever lived.”

 

Tormund’s eyes grew wide and challenging, but spirited all the same. Jon watched, eyebrows lifted slightly at the scene, his eyes darting over to find Daenerys who had been in the company of Ser Jorah for most of the evening. They were caught up in a friendly conversation and Jon turned his attentions back to Tormund. He assumed he must have missed a piece of the conversation as Tormund puffed his chest out and came within inches of Jon.

 

“Did you hear that? They want us to put on a show,” he said with mock enthusiasm, his eyes twinkling with an unreserved excitement. Slightly tipsy from his mead, Jon accepted the challenge. When Tormund reached for his kopis, Gendry came around to get a closer seat and stopped him, leaving for the armory to fetch him a proper longsword. Jon retreated to his own chambers and brought both Longclaw and Lightbringer along with him, and now the room grew silent as their eyes became aware of what was going to unfold.

 

Gendry returned with a strong, hefty longsword, his face filled with enthusiasm to see the two men duel. Tormund took a few practice swings to get a feel for its balance, then pointed it in Jon’s direction across the room. Tables were shifted further toward the walls to allow enough space. Dany stopped mid-sentence at the bustle of it all, unable to mask a dignified smile at her betrothed whose back faced her.

 

Jon unsheathed Longclaw first, swiveling the blade in a wistful figure eight before walking a little closer down the path. Tormund pretended to be impressed, pressing a hand to his heart to mock his feigned emotion. Jon grinned and everyone’s eyes fell on them. Only feet away, Tormund launched his hefty weight at Jon, who easily parried and with the weight of their blades together, rebound both of their arms together in a fast circular motion until they traded places.

 

Tormund swayed where he stood, preparing for the next move and Jon made a gesture to strike Tormund’s legs - he fell for it and hastily Jon thrust the flat of his blade upward against Tormund’s shoulder. The northern lords began to holler loudly which only ignited Tormund, grinding his teeth in a snarling grin and sprinting forward, Jon being pushed further and further back as Tormund made quick motions, their steels clanging around their ears.

 

Jon could sense that he was running out of room with each step back, so he ducked beneath Tormund’s next blow, his back arching almost parallel with the floor before he twisted himself and sidestepped around Tormund, gently thrusting the point of his blade behind him until it met the thick furs of Tormund’s coat.

 

Again, cheers filled the room, and Dany participated with a clap of her hands. A thin sheen of sweat coated Jon’s hairline now, walking forward to reset but not without a quick look to Dany. Her eyes squinted in a grin and he returned the gesture, his ears growing hot and his head beginning to swirl as his breath caught up to him. It didn’t help that one of the lords had heaved a tankard of mead into his chest. Jon took a large swig, though reminded himself to remain at least somewhat clear headed so he wouldn’t be leaving tomorrow with a thick head. At the very least, it eased his nerves. He returned the tankard to the nearest table. When he spun on his heel, he came to notice that Tormund now wielded an axe in his other hand, swirling the massive weapon as easily as Jon did Longclaw.

 

“Let’s do this like the mad fuckers we are,” Tormund exclaimed recklessly, to which Jon then went to his scabbard and pulled out Lightbringer and replaced Longclaw. The room hummed with eager anticipation and Jon made a few practice swings, unsure of how he would be able to maintain his balance given the difference of weight between the swords and the way his  reflexes were slowly numbing.

 

Jon raised his arm and in a lunge he brought Longclaw down unto Tormund’s longsword, holding his stance as the blades screeched down to near the hilt of Longclaw. Jon threw him off and blocked Tormund’s undercut, Jon’s upper body twisting unnaturally to reach and protect his thigh before he rounded his arm over his head and as easily as a cleaver through cheese, sliced the thick wooden grip of Tormund’s axe.

 

As it was unexpected, Jon’s full weight was thrown with the force he used, dropping onto his hands as people got to their feet to get a better view. The axe head slid far along the floor somewhere behind Tormund and Jon quickly went to sit up but nearly collided with the edge of Tormund’s longsword, to which he kicked himself across the stone floor as the sword caught in the fabric of Jon’s gambeson.

 

Jon huffed an incredulous laugh but Tormund was anxious to continue and wasted no time, so within a half second Jon reclaimed Lightbringer, the nearest blade, and lifted it just in time to meet Tormund’s steel. Tormund’s face grew red as he pushed downward and, with Jon trapped on his back, clenched his teeth together and his lips curled into a snarl as the quivering of their tiring arms grew ever closer to Jon’s chest.

 

Jon was losing breath now in his vigor, suppressed further by the alcohol. Tormund grunted relentlessly, nearing his winning until in with a swift movement, Jon shoved his arms with what energy remained and in the split second that there was a gap, rolled to his side as the heave of Tormund’s body crashed the blade onto the stone floor. On his stomach, Jon swept Longclaw just hovering the floor and disarmed Tormund free from his weapon.

 

Exhausted, they each lay on the floor, chests rising and falling rapidly as the northern lords pounded tankards against tables and shouted deafeningly into the halls, and if anyone had dare sleep they surely would have been roused just then. Tormund crawled back to his feet and reached down to pull Jon with enough force to dislocate someone’s shoulder, crashing him into his chest like a ragdoll while his other hand mussed its knuckles into Jon’s hair. When Jon broke free, stumbling as he did so, Tormund gestured his arms outward as if presenting his friend.

 

Hollars grew wild and Jon sought his seat beside Dany, throwing his full weight into the chair as her smiling eyes followed him and after a minute, it quieted down back into its usual purr of voices. But it didn’t last long. Grey Worm, who had been at Jorah’s opposite side, leaned forward and it took Jon a second to realize he was being addressed.

 

“Me next, Jon Snow,” Grey Worm said flatly, but the faintest of smirks pulled his lips.

 

Jon quirked an eyebrow, unsure that this would be wise, but he couldn’t deny that he was curious to lay eyes upon the infamous fighting style of the Unsullied. Jon nodded in acceptance and Dany perched straighter in her chair, even more engrossed at how  _ this  _ would pan out.

 

Once again, the room quieted and Jon wielded Longclaw while Grey Worm crouched with spear and shield, and already Jon knew this would be a challenge. They began, back and forth and dancing around each other, feet shuffling and scurrying and skirting air as steel met spear and shield in an endless maneuvering. Grey Worm was impossibly fast and what was more, his slender form was deceivingly tenacious, forcing Jon to use muscles he normally didn’t. His entire body had to remember itself in order to keep up. It wasn’t as with anyone else he ever practiced with; there were no breaks for rest or remedy.

 

Dany watched with bated breath but equal thrill; Jon was in his element and for a small time was allowed to forget the fears of the looming dawn. Her hands came to rest at her abdomen, thumbing it softly.

 

Jon’s eyes fought to correspond with both Grey Worm’s spear  _ and _ shield, which wasn’t only for defense purposes, but offensively as well. Many times Jon wanted to laugh but became far too overwhelmed in concentrating on not losing his head or a limb before tomorrow. Grey Worm persistently hacked away and whirled his spear over head, coercing Jon backwards and as his eyes fell on the spear coming down on him, Grey Worm pulled it away and jut the lip of his shield into Jon’s chest with enough force that he fell.

 

Before Jon could even think to bring his arm forward, Grey Worm’s spear point was already staring at him between his eyes and Grey Worm was fixed in a crouch over him. For a fleeting second Jon’s eyes scanned his options, but he was finished and laid down his sword, to which the room buzzed with wild commotion, undeniably swayed by the skill of an Unsullied man. He reached down and brought Jon to his feet, and they shared a friendly nod of respect from one man to another.

 

As Jon returned once again to Dany, he wiped his arm across his face to dry the sweat and could feel the seep of cool air weaving into his damp clothing beneath. Ser Jorah had, eventually, quietly made his exit for the night and only then did he become aware of how late it had grown. Dany sneered when Grey Worm passed her, then turned to look up at Jon, who looked beaten in for the day.

 

“Shall we retire for the night?” She asked him quietly, and it took him a few seconds to concede, which told her his anxieties were returning now that he had been wrung back into reality. Pushing her chair back, she stood and linked her arms with his and they were the first ones to leave behind the commotion. The sound still buzzed in their ears even when they reached the quiet of the long hall that would guide them to their chambers.

 

The only other sound now was the crackling of the hearth down the way, and Dany grew a chill knowing that after tomorrow, Dragonstone would inhabit this very state of subdued sound while those who remained here paced endlessly for word on the outcome. 

 

When they came to the chamber hall, Jon kept his eyes forward and smirked slightly. “I think Grey Worm was trying to prove something tonight.”

 

Puzzled, she looked up at him and smiled wryly. “What was it?”

 

“He was giving me an idea of what I would be dealing with if I ever mistreated a single hair on your head. I lost, obviously,” he mused.

 

Her lips pressed together in a restrained grin and she turned to face him so that she was walking backwards now. “You best be careful, Jon Snow. I told you I had the greatest armies in the world.”

 

Something about her tone and the adage of his full name, which she usually used when she was being mischievous or playing games with him, incited a lustrous flutter deep in his abdomen. His obsidian eyes stared down at her now and it was then that he realized they had stopped just before his chamber door.

 

Dany found it impossibly difficult to hold his gaze, shadowed by the dim light, but her eyebrows lifted in mock challenge. “Do you have nothing to say for yourself,  _ Jon Sn- _ ”

 

Before she could finish, he had leaned down to collect her mouth in his, her laugh escaping through her nose as his beard grazed her chin. It was evident that he was a hungry and deprived man, though she couldn’t deny that she hadn’t longed for his affections. He wasted no time, his jaw articulating open further as he sucked on her lips. She held her hands around the back of his neck and found herself opening her mouth further when his tongue sought hers, a familiar simmering ache rousing in her low abdomen and seering her loins, her knees involuntarily weakening.

 

Before she knew it, they became lascivious, unexpected but wholly welcomed as they had been so devoid of each others intimate company since she had been poisoned and since recovering from the illness of the pregnancy, additionally. Jon’s hands wandered the length of her gown, pressing her against the wall as her stomach sucked in when the rapidly developing hardness between his thighs pressed against her, even in the thickness of his gambeson.

 

Her hands found his chest and she gently pushed him away enough to see him. As desperately as she wanted him to ravage her there and then, and as ferociously worked up as she was at the thought of it, she knew it wouldn’t be long before the halls would fill with others seeking rest. Without a word, he understood and reached just around to the door handle and pushed it open, and she watched him curiously as he coerced her to go in first.

 

It was the last thing she would have ever expected: the room was warmed by the blazing hearth, but candles littered the room, casting a simmering glow that the natural light could no longer produce and a warmth that could never be achieved in the winter winds, but it was just that. The bed was freshly cleaned and made, the furs and pillows tidied and full and fluffed to look anew. A pleasant steam rose delicately into the air from the drawn bath, and she could faintly smell the familiar scent of lavender and cinnamon - two of her favorite Essosi bath oils. 

 

Quietly from behind the door latched shut and she turned to see Jon had been watching her, her cheeks flushing. “I wish I could’ve done more. I wanted to give you flowers, but they’re all dead,” he said dryly with an air of humor and she smiled sweetly at him, taking his hands when he came closer to her.

 

“You surprise me; I never would have thought the northern lords romantic,” she smirked and he drew himself closer now, to the point that she could smell the husk on him.

 

“Do you remember our first night together?” He inquired in a hushed tone, his voice becoming more rugged as he did so. His focus never left her lips.

 

“As if I could forget.” Her searching eyes tried to read his thoughts, but failed as any trace of question became muddled when his mouth caught hers in a brush of a kiss, barely lingering there before following along the edge of her jaw and into the curvature of her neck. Slowly she drew in a lengthened sigh, craning her head to the side and closing her eyes while his hands slithered along her sides.

 

Her hands gently gripped him, shivering at the tickle of his beard grazing her skin. His hands shifted upward and he drew his head back up to her, his fingers working at the fastenings of her gown. Eyes focused on his task, Dany observed him with heavy eyes and when she began to undo his breeches, he pulled them away from her, and then she realized why he had mentioned the first night they lay together. He was going to return the favor of drawing out the process and taunt her just as she had done when she grew so irate with him for him to call upon her in her chambers, having been denied time and time again by her advances. She had understood his reluctancy given their relation, but the sexual tension that had developed between them and shook her to her core was almost painful not to relieve. So when he came to her, wide-eyed, hopeful and wanting, she thought it would be an amusing game to give him a taste of just what his rejection had boiled in her. And now he was ready to turn it back on to her.

 

Jon closed most of the space between them, leaving a gap for when he would eventually disrobe her. When her lacings were all done at the front, his hands slid along the curvature of her shoulders and fed themselves down her arms, the gown peeling away with them. For the first time in a long time, she hadn’t shivered for the chill of the room had since been consumed by the heat. This time her skin prickled at how tender he was handling her and how it so much tormented her.

 

He kneeled down along with the gown as it reached her knees and he dragged his lips down from the hollow of her neck down the middle of her body, her stomach sucking in when the light coarseness of his beard tickled her, and just as he was going to go further down, his hands helped her legs escape the bundled fabric. When he rose again, he collected her mouth in his and warm hands laid at either side of her hips, carefully ushering her backward until the back of her thighs bumped into the edge of the bed.

 

Without parting he kicked his boots off and was grateful for going without any plating this evening, and he sat her where he wanted her, sucking her lip before he hiked each leg upon his shoulders. Already her face was betraying her, preparing for the onslaught of the indulgence he was about to feed her. In correspondence she laid back onto her elbows and his knees crawled up onto the bed before her, his eyes measured and never leaving hers.

 

Her breaths became shallow and then faded into oblivion when his head ducked down and his warm tongue glazed all along her center, from her saturated entrance until his soft, full lips came to enclose around the small bundle of nerves, and already she had lost all support of her elbows. Her hands reached down to grip white-knuckled at the furs, arching her back and hips into him and a stammered exhale erupting from her open mouth.

 

With his lips still entombing her, his tongue lapped and caressed in gentle motion, sometimes adding more pressure which made her legs tremble and fall open further. A growl sounded deep in his chest from all of her exposed before him so willfully, his hands laying at her inner thighs o cement her there as he worked her into a frenzy. She hummed longingly and his mouth dragged downward until his tongue found the barricade to her entrance, and he torturously prodded with his tongue but didn’t yet indulge.

 

Her head turned to its side and her hands grasped for anything to hold onto, anything that would relieve her without letting herself go prematurely. But when his tongue finally dove into her, her thighs subconsciously closed around his head and his skilled hands had to pin her hips to the bed when she dare to flip onto her side for reprieve. She whined when her desire wasn’t granted, the softness of his tongue that lapped proficiently within her pulsing walls rendering her bones useless.

 

He swirled and urged and propelled and her head swirled violently, the terrible craving to fulfil her urgency but not wanting to let go, not wanting the night to end only to be thrust into the uncertainty of war. As his tongue withdrew, it dragged up her center and circled around her bud a few times more, and she drew her arms above her head and dug into the edge, driven into such an eclipse that she hadn’t the lucidity to mute the drawn out moan freeing from her lips. In her delirium she felt the bed shift and before she could look, Jon’s mouth fell over hers and he took advantage of her defenselessness and locked her arms still above her head with a strong but delicate grip, her legs parting open and her legs wrapping around his waist to urge him down onto her.

 

She had nearly forgotten he was still clothed when her leg met fabric, and she made quick work in helping him shed all of his layers in record time, internally happy that he didn’t have a different wardrobe each day to confuse her adept hands. With it all tossed over the bed in a disorderly fashion, she separated from him to trail her eyes along his muscled chest and moving along the length of him until his yearning and veined cock came into focus, and for a second she stopped breathing. He watched her with an appetite and in a swift glide, his hot and inflexible length replaced the actions his lips had just punished her with, thrusting in a methodically moderate rhythm, his chest increasing in its rise and fall in search of air.

 

Dany’s focus returned to him and she had never visually taken in how stimulating it was to see his face strain at pleasing her all while refraining from his own release. As he quickened his pace, he freed her hands and ran one of his along her smooth, pink-hued cheek, his thumb trailing away and resting at the point of her jaw while he moved to kiss her with a vehement passion. Taking advantage of her freedom, her fingers curled around to the back of his head and unraveled his hair from its tie, massaging her fingertips through his raven locks and pressing him further, her tongue meeting his in a song of its own.

 

She lifted her hips from the bed and taking note, Jon heaved his hips back and with his next plunge buried himself fully within her, the phenomenon sending them both in unison into another world, unrestrained in their reverberation. With each long pulse he smoothed along from root to tip, their skin kissing with each forward thrust. Slowly he increased his speed, and he dropped his head lower to collect the taut peak of her breast into his mouth, a stuttered whimper sounding from her as his mouth masterfully nipped and soothed over one breast before the other.

 

When he came back up, his eyes were hardened and wolf-like and he took her in his arms before pinning her against the headboard, and she could barely contain herself as he perched both of her legs up onto his shoulders, fully displaying all of her to him unabashedly. Without waiting another moment he pushed deep inside of her, his hand fixed at the back of her both to urge her harder against his mouth and to prevent her head from knocking against the headboard as he drove into her. Her eyebrows furrowed deep creases and it was almost futile to do much as her breath was stolen from her, his frenzied lurches sending a rippling of heat and crippling loss of muscle function.

 

Jon panted stunted breaths against her mouth, sweat gathering at his hairline as he thrust with purpose, igniting a muted groan from him as he drew closer to his peak. With each pull and push sent a hot static deep within her skin that chilled her to her bone, her nerves on overdrive and the sight of him before her by itself plenty to make her want to wail. She pulled his face in and their tongues glided in smooth strokes over the other’s, boisterous breaths sweeping out their nostrils and their bodies moving in sync. The soft pad on her finger tips rakes down his arms, and when he grew faster still she had to separate herself from him, sliding down until she was flat below him, and he nuzzled his mouth into the hollow of her neck while his arms began to shake at her sides. 

 

With her new position she took advantage of her legs upon his shoulders and elevated her hips into him, and in response he growled hot pants of indistinguishable curses against her soft skin. Her arms wrapped loosely around his neck and nestled her cheek against his head, and when he suddenly propelled back up onto his arms, his mouth hungrily possessed hers and when his strokes grew slower and he would pause when he was submerged fully against her, she knew he was trying to refrain from his climax, but she could hardly being so near the edge and needed to let go. Just as he seemed to be coming down from his high, she sucked his lip between her teeth and simultaneously drew her hips in steady circles, but she barely got to a third round when his cock pulsed wildly within her and when he was liberated, she followed soon after, the flutter of her walls enclosing around him while they exchanged labored and rambunctious groans into each others gaping mouths.

 

Jon could barely move over and he succumbed on top of her, their bodies meshing in their clammy state. It took a long time to stabilize themselves and Jon’s slight drunkenness was ebbing as he lay there now.

 

“I...don’t think I’ll much be able to leave in the morning, not after that...” She joked half-heartedly, the exhaustion straining her voice.

 

A weary grin spread to one corner of Jon’s lips and he lifted his head with some effort, studying her as he placed a delicate kiss on her lips before he gently rolled off of her, always consciously aware now to not put any weight on her belly, and scooped her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. In a few paces he stepped into the still-hot tub and sat her opposite him. Though she was still warm to the touch from their lovemaking, and Jon’s tameless consumption of all of her, she welcomed the surge of heat that the water that seemed to seep into her skin.

 

She began to unravel her mussed braids while Jon lathered a cloth and began to clean himself, and when his attention was elsewhere her eyes gaped at the angry curved hack above his heart, reddened by the heat it endured. Her eyes traveled up to his face and her fingers slowed in her hair, and she tried to imagine how it had happened, how those he trusted and shared a brotherhood with could bring their blades to lunge through his leathers and impale his skin and organs. He had told her the story before, but somehow her brain couldn’t comprehend what he had felt, what his face must have looked like when he was betrayed over and over and conscious to absorb every face that came before him and endure every bone-splintering blow at their hands. Eventually her hair fell freely around her, but she was entranced in her thoughts and it was only when she heard Jon’s voice call her name did she break out of it. He appeared to have been freshly cleaned from head to toe and she wondered how long she had been sitting there lost in her thoughts.

 

She could read it on his face that he had an idea of where she went off to, and he pulled her closer to him and sat her on his legs, placing the hand he kept onto the curved puncture. Her lip twitched briefly - it was so deep yet there was nothing more than flesh to be found. Most of the time she avoided it at all, for when she did make contact with it, it seemed to still be sensitive to him. Even now he stiffened, though perhaps it was the memory that pained him still. Her thumb lined the edges of it and a small furrow creased in her brow, and while she sat there, he began to wash her.

 

Her hands moved down to the remaining punctures submerged beneath the sudsy water, and suddenly she felt like the little girl she used to be under her brother’s wary eye - naive and ignorant to the intentions of men, unaware of the brutal world and all it inhabited with its implacable evil. In her mind she had grown numb to it all, having suffered and barely even lived through her share, and she could only assume she came upon these feelings because she felt Jon was the purest person above all. He was good to a fault and sometimes he was so honor-bound to always make the just decisions, the blind and corrupt could not discern the difference between what was moral and what was betrayal.

 

As a young maid she would have wished those kinds of men liberation from their heinous beliefs, but now she would only wish death upon them. It was in these moments that she came to doubt herself and her own morality, that maybe all of the rumors would prove to be true and she was a ruthless, power-hungry ruler who was destined to follow in her father’s ash-ridden imprints. That maybe Varys’ suspicions were not false and that the north had every right to disavow her….

 

But it was only when those she loved were threatened or persecuted that her mind conjured such dark ideas. It was with the support of her advisors that she usually was able to make the right call, whether mercy was merited or death by fire justified, and not without her small share of  hindrance along the way. It was no wonder why her tainted reputation had seeped into the ears of Westeros; only in the times that she stumbled and established did the reach of her influence cross the Narrow Sea, yet from what she gathered, everyone was ignorant to all of her accomplished deeds. They wished to paint herin their evisionings rather than accept that a Targaryen, and a woman at that, could bring long-sought prosperity to the world, and she reckoned she could do it better than most given their history.

 

“Are you alright?” Jon asked, crouching his head low to catch her stare.

 

Her eyebrows lifted as if she had forgotten herself before she nodded. “I’ve just had one of those moments where I try to piece together how we’ve gotten here. To where we are now. It’s easy to get lost in what’s ahead and forget what brought us here.”

 

Jon’s face softened. “Could you imagine it any other way? A different life?”

 

“Maybe at one time...before the scars were healed. But not anymore,” she murmured, a slight smile on her lips.

 

His hand cradled at the back of her neck and his eyes danced between her eyes and her lips before he leaned in to kiss her wistfully, lingering a beat before breaking from her, but stayed close. “If something happens to me-”

 

“Jon, don’t-”

 

“No, I need you to promise me.” His eyes were widened and his face determined. “You need to stay as safe as possible. I can’t have you worrying about me and doing something dangerous.”

 

Dany leaned back slightly and looked at him with stony eyes, but a smirk on her face, and she brought her hands up to fondle his beard. “You need me, Jon Snow. And I’m not going to promise you that I would let any harm come your way if I can prevent it.”

 

She could feel his hands beneath the water, coming to grip her hips and with a firm pull he sat her fully in his lap, his expression melding from sentimental to provoking. She looked down on him with a resilient exterior, but struggled not to laugh.

 

“You’re right. I  _ do _ need you,” he said quietly, a small plead in his tone.

 

Winding her arms around his shoulders, she pressed her lips together. “We will win this war  _ together _ . We will live  _ together _ . We will be wed and meet our child  _ together _ .”

 

There was a small, dubious shake of his head, inadequately able to absorb this beautiful human before him. “I love you,” he murmured.

 

“I love you,” she whispered in return and kissed him fully, and soon after they began drying themselves and dressing for the night. Jon stoked the fire to ensure it would last through the night. Dany brushed out her damp hair without haste. Everything they had done in the final quarter of the evening they had done passively, paying extra attention to lingering on tasks not otherwise necessary. It was as if each of them, non-verbally, were reluctant to sleep knowing what would come once they woke again. It was a thrilling idea that they would soon relinquish the world free of the army of the dead and Cersei, but terrifying all the same at what they would face and what they wouldn’t know to expect.

 

Finally, they had run out of excuses and in the dim, dancing light of the hearth, gathered together in the bed. They each laid on their sides to face each other, their lower halves entangling in each other and their faces only inches apart. Jon’s hand lifted to graze her cheek and comb through the drying locks at her scalp, and she drew herself nearer. Jon’s shadowed face was slightly pained and brooding, much as he always was, and she gingerly dug her fingers through his beard. 

 

Jon inched his shoulders closer until he could reach her face and he held it as if this would be the last he would ever do so, planting a still, passionate kiss on her lips while she threw her arm around his torso, his brows nearly closing together in his internal affliction. When he broke away, she thought the flickering light gave away a twinkle of wetness in his eyes, but he was quick to collect her to lay against his chest. One of his hands tenderly swept over her belly, coming to rest along her waist, and at some point they fell prey to rest in the refuge of each other's embrace. 


	17. Part XVII - The Last War (1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing prepares for war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note - this is going to be broken up into 2 chapters because it's HUGE. I will likely have part 2 uploaded by tonight, tomorrow at the latest :) hope you enjoy part 1!!

As the sun fought to be seen at the horizon, Daenerys’s ships were being loaded and prepped for their voyage. The Golden Company joined them at the beaches, flanking and enclosing the Fiery Hand, and the fleet became so vast they disappeared into the lingering, frosty mist. Ser Harry had brought back news that Cersei had ordered for his men to be executed once she understood he intended to abandon her cause, but most had fled the city before significant loss. In contrast, he informed them that word from his other mercenaries was that winter had only recently reached the capital, and though the skies were greatly diminished, the bay had not yet frozen over, giving them an advantage against Euron.

 

Above the island, Drogon and Rhaegal made their morning feast, shrieking and trilling at the growing presence of humans below. The great hall was lined with the weaponry and armor that Gendry and the northern smiths had labored over tirelessly since they arrived, for those who had been without since the siege of Winterfell.

 

Though Dragonstone’s inhabitants began to rouse, the halls remained eerily silent aside from the clamor of passers-by gathering their bearings in addition to their wits to face the day. The women, children, and otherwise non-able-bodied folk offered a helping hand where they could when they weren’t getting ready to see off loved ones and northern town folk alike.

 

Jon had quietly gone to his chambers before dawn, leaving Dany to absorb as much rest as she was able. He stood at the balcony overseeing the wispy silhouettes of the fleet below, practicing deep breaths and burying his hand into Ghost’s neck where the wolf sat loyally at his side. After a while he developed a chill and he made his way out into the halls with Ghost ever present at his side without a sound. He kept his head down but his eyes couldn’t help but study the faces of those he passed, only to find they reflected his.

 

Once he passed through the archway leading to the armory, he found Gendry had been the only one left as he slid on his boots. He was clad in leathers and plated armor of his own, and his hefty warhammer which boasted the Baratheon stag sigil inlaid upon its head. He looked up as he tied his boots with a firm grip and grinned widely when Jon came into view.

 

”It’s all ready for you over just in that corner there,” he nodded to where Jon’s new armor had been laid upon a silken cloth of blue and Jon regarded him gratefully before he took to the privacy of the corner and began to fasten himself in. As he did so, Gendry, whose leathers had been painted a faint golden yellow hue for his father’s house colors, gathered a few longswords and dragonglass daggers while Jon did his business.

 

\---

 

Dany laid in bed, her hands resting over her churning abdomen as she exhaled slowly. She was afraid any sudden movement would make her lurch, and her medicinal powder was far across the room. Her surroundings carried the scent of the outdoors and the lingering bath oils and simmering burning wood in the hearth. She inhaled deeply, unsure of when she would next come to favor the pleasantries. Slowly, she propped herself up on her elbow, then her other, taking small measures and forcing her stomach to settle before she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

 

When she reached the table, she poured chilled water into a small steel chalice, swirled the powder with a finger, and downed it in a few revolting gulps. Padding her way to the window, her eyes scanned the obscure view of the ships below, and a small smile reached her lips. She watched as Drogon and Rhaegal wove in and out of the thick cloud cover, swallowing the thick knot that had formed in her throat knowing what the fate of Viserion would have to come to be. He was dead and he was a danger to her, she had to remember, but the mother within her found it almost inconceivable to let go of the love she shared for her child no longer hers.

 

A knock at the door disrupted her thoughts and she bid her guest to enter. Sansa stepped through and smiled before closing the door quietly behind her. The other day when they shared a friendly, private conversation together, Sansa had offered to tend to Dany’s hair when the day arrived. Dany was appreciative that they had found common ground with one another and every encounter grew less and less strained and forced. It seemed their relationship could be defined as warm friends; they had several shorter gatherings over the last couple of weeks to build a foundation together.

 

Sighing contentedly, Dany supposed it was time to get on with the day after all and reciprocated Sansa’s smile. “How are you feeling?” Sansa inquired softly, resting her hands behind her back.

 

“A bit ill, but it will pass. And you?” Dany came to sit in the chair before the looking glass and Sansa found the horsehair brush before she parted Dany’s hair in layers, pinning them with metal clasps to thoroughly disentangle each section.

 

“A bit of everything. I was raised to be a great lady someday, and now I wish I listened to Arya more and barked less when she tried to put a sword in my hand as children.” A crooked grin graced her face at the memory - she had been repulsed by anything that would get her pretty gowns dirty, a true interpretation to her naivete and delusions as a child.

 

Dany smiled widely. “I’m no better, Lady Sansa. Your sister tried to do the same with me, but I’m not sure I ever felt more embarrassed. Jon has told me your strengths lie in political measures and the welfare of the small folk. That’s no small task, nor is it less important than those who storm battlefields.”

 

“I suppose so, but I was slow to learn.” Sansa’s hands began to weave into the layers of molten silver.

 

A pleasant silence fell in the room before either of them spoke again.

 

A thought had occurred to Sansa and she smiled to herself. “Where do you and Jon wish to marry?”

 

Dany smiled sweetly, her eyes falling heavy at the gentle pull of her tresses. “Jon wishes to marry in the Godswood of Winterfell. I’ve no complaints, except I’m not so sure the northerners would be too taken with the idea.”

 

Sansa considered this for a moment. “I think given the fact that you’ve granted northern independence, they won’t much care for what happens after. And anyhow, Bran will be King in the North soon, and he wouldn’t allow any sour behavior to spoil the occasion.”

 

“I’m not so sure. I...would have much rather preferred the kingdoms to remain as they are, but our losses have been too great. They will be without many necessities for quite a while and I fear the consequences will outweigh the benefits.” Doubt crept into Dany’s voice as much as she tried to mask it. It took Sansa by surprise; Dany had always appeared to sure of herself in her decisions, but she supposed even a queen must consider all of her choices, else she would never grow.

 

Sansa sighed quietly, and Dany watched her in the looking glass. “They will. And it will be a struggle for a time, but you’ve already come to see how willful and tenacious we are. We will declare our northern boundaries and make do with what we have until the north is restored to what it once was and what it wants to be.”

 

Having been afraid the subject might spark a heated argument, Dany relaxed. The fact that Sansa hadn’t ripped into her about sending those who rejected Dany’s claim back to Winterfell had boggled her; but she came to understand that  _ that  _ Sansa had been long abandoned, and she had since developed into someone more empathetic, even if she didn’t entirely agree with Dany’s choice.

 

After some time later, Sansa tied the end of Dany’s long, intricate braid which was interwoven with other ones, and probed the silver, three-headed dragon brooch at the top middle of where the braiding began. A couple of shorter, wavy strands were left loose near her temple. She gawked at her own reflection and with every accomplishment brought them closer to their endeavor. Dany stood and pulled Sansa into a friendly hug, and when Sansa left the chambers, Dany disrobed from her sleeping gown and slipped into a leather dress that flared at the waist and ended at her shins. The bust had grown tighter than when she had first tried it on; her breasts were growing tender and fuller and the press of the material caused a small discomfort. The skirt of the dress blended into a painted red, and the shoulders were carved in the pattern of dragon scales that faded gradually.

 

Once her boots were fastened, she heaved a deep sigh and began her journey to the armory.

 

\---

 

“Look at this beautiful fucker!” Tormund growled provokingly, his arms outstretched as if putting Jon on display in front of the northmen gathered in the great hall. Jon’s mouth downturned modestly, and the northern forces all turned to face him now. Tormund clapped his friend on the back whilst admiring his new ensemble. Jon took a center spot and waited until all attention focused on him.

 

“Lords and ladies of the north. We are about to embark on a perilous journey...to see an end to the war against the living. That can be said for both the army of the dead and Cersei Lannister. For as long as I live, I will be forever grateful that you put your faith in me as your king, to denounce tradition for the sake of a bastard’s name you trusted and believed in,” he bellowed, his eyes scanning the room to each attentive face. A ways behind him at the opposite end of the hall, Dany, Gendry and Jorah stood silently and listened.

 

“Let us not forget that we also fight for those we lost on our home land; to our brothers and sisters, to our fathers and mothers, to our friends, our fellow men and women who set aside their differences to fight together and die together so that others might live. Everyone in this world owes them a debt that can never be repaid. It is our duty and our honor to keep them alive in memory for those who come after us, and those who come after them, for as long as men draw breath. They were the shields that guarded the realms of men, and we shall never see their like again.”

 

There were no cheers, as had been expected, but rather a silent and solemn quiet reverberated amongst them, an unsaid understanding and respect.

 

A man in the back middle of the crowd then raised his sword high into the air. “To Jon Snow - one of the greatest kings the north has ever known, and one I regret the north shall never have again. And to Queen Daenerys and King Jon - long may they reign upon the six kingdoms; long may they prosper!”

 

“To the King and Queen! To the King and Queen!”

 

Swords were drawn and thrust upward, and Jon looked upon them with tenderness, nodding in affection in response to their unwavering support. When the buzz died down, the crowd began to file out, and not without further sentiments to their former king as they passed. When it was clear again, Jon turned to seek Dany only to find her at the opposite end of the hall walking toward him clad in her new armor.

 

His breath was stolen from him - the Targaryen house colors were proudly displayed in the plating. The pauldrons at her shoulders winged out at the ends, black and almost wing-like, and an underlayer of black dragons scales covered her upper arms to stop around her elbows. The breast plate was hitched from the tops of the curvature of her shoulders with the sculpt of dragon heads as the fastening, and ended at her waist where a dragon-scaled skirt hung down to her knees. The asymmetrical cloak Sansa had fixed for her was adorned over her right shoulder. A sword rested at her hip. Vambraces, gauntlets, the like; he wasn’t sure he’d seen anything quite like it. He knew it.

 

When she was within arms length, he snaked his arms around her waist. “Is it entirely inappropriate to say how beautiful you look?”

 

“I’m quite taken with you, myself,” she cooed, raising a hand to finger at the ridges of the Stark sigil. “That was a beautiful speech.”

 

His smile was slightly sorrowful; it felt as if he had just shed a part of himself; though the north would always be his home. He came to accept and respect his Targaryen lineage - and he very much wished to learn more about its history someday - but his heart remained a Stark.

 

“Are you ready?” He asked, bringing his hands up to cradle her face, his thumbs grazing over her cheek bones. When she nodded, he dipped his head down to kiss her tenderly, and she pulled him into her. His brows nearly knitted as if he were pained, and when they parted his deep brown eyes stared hard at her, then traveled down to where her abdomen was layered beneath all the leathers and mail and plating. Exhaling slowly, he brought his attention up past her shoulder and together they took to the cliffside.

 

\---

 

Without too much of a fuss, Dany and Jon had latched and buckled the armor to the dragons with the help of the muscular arms of the Dothraki. Gendry had built sturdy leather saddles for each of them, with tethers to keep their riders in place.

 

Drogon and Rhaegal shared screeches between themselves, conversing while remaining patient with their handlers. When everything was secured, Dany stood back and grinned warmly at her children; in return, they propped back onto their feet and flapped their wings with a holler in response to their mother’s approval. Jon turned on his heel to find a congregation had formed behind them, a safe distance from the dragons. Jon and Dany joined them and when Jon found Sam, he called Ghost over and crouched low so that he was equal with his red eyes.

 

“Keep them safe, boy,” he muttered, entangling his hand along the neck of the wolf’s fur. Ghost whimpered and lowered his head, then stepped forward to bury it in Jon’s chest. Wrapping his arms around the beast’s neck, Jon closed his eyes and took solace in the momentary warmth of his feathery coat. He stood and gathered Sam in a tight embrace, sandwiching Little Sam in between them, and Sam watched him with trepidation.

 

“We’ll be here when you return. In one piece, do you hear me?” His friend ordered, and Jon flashed him a grimace before clapping him on the shoulder and moving on to Sansa.

 

“We should probably be used to saying goodbyes by now,” she muttered, her voice threatening to fail her.

 

“Let’s hope this is the last one of its kind,” Jon said, and she threw her arms around his shoulders, and he lifted her off of her feet. When they pulled away, her eyes grew wet and he gently kissed her forehead, and then made his goodbyes to Bran. He assured Jon he would be with him every step of the way though he would not see him. Dany had been following behind Jon, and once it nobody was left to share words with and all had boarded the ships, they began to hike up the incline of the hill to where Drogon and Rhaegal awaited them to take to the skies.

 

“Lord Snow.”

 

Jon glanced over his shoulder to find Melisandre approaching him, and he could feel a developing nausea in his stomach. She never dressed in anything other than her elegant red robes, and a halo of heat always seemed to follow her as if it seeped through her skin. Dany turned as well, reassuring the dragons that the red woman was of no threat to them when they began to growl.

 

“I still have a role to play in this war. When the Night King and his army arrive, you will find me in the dire hour. From there you must carry out one final sacrifice to the Lord of Light.” Her voice was inconceivably calm whilst regarding her own mortality, yet doubt still crippled Jon.

 

He released a shallow breath, glimpsing Dany before returning to Melisandre. “And what if it doesn’t work?”

 

A small, pleasant smile crossed her lips. “It will.” 

 

“Lady Melisandre,” Dany called softly, taking a few paces closer to be heard over the wind. “Did Lord Varys ever confide in you as to why he felt the need to betray me?”

 

A sad smile stretched Melisandre’s mouth, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Lord Varys claims to have once had a vision in the flames; of King’s Landing succumbing to dragonfire, with all of the one million civilians screaming within its walls.”

 

Though Dany would never fathom to doing something so cynical as reliving anything resembling her father’s decisions, it still made her physically ill. “And you do not have these...visions, my lady?”

 

“Visions can be as clear as grim winter snows or as promising as the first bloom of spring, Your Grace,” she said gently. “Lord Varys was no greenseer; though what he saw could be true in some form, the Lord of Light would not have summoned me here if it would be all for naught in the end.”

 

With that, she bowed and turned on her heel to join the rest of the priests and priestesses on the flagship of the Fiery Hand. Though the idea of visions and the perception of the future left a sourness to her stomach, she felt at least a sense of closure for the assassination attempt.

 

Jon regarded Dany once more, and he pulled her to him and smashed his mouth into hers before nodding to her and they mounted their respective dragons. He had been less enthusiastic about the idea of being strapped down, but buckled himself in regardless. Dany took in the sight of the Dragonstone walls one last time before she pressed herself close to Drogon, hands gripped tightly around two large spikes, and he heaved himself into the frigid air. Rhaegal followed his brother, and Jon watched as the figures below were consumed by the mist.

 

\---

 

Dany and Jon flew high above the cloud cover until they found a clearing, and the closer they enclosed on the capital the more frequently they became more wary of their surroundings, as the Night King could ambush them at any given moment if they let their guard down. Periodically one of them would dip below to keep sight of the ships below them. The journey had begun rough as they fought to break through the thickening ice, but it thinned the longer they sailed, and the winter gale was providing favorable gusts.

 

\---

 

It wasn’t until nightfall that Arya, Jaime and The Hound began their descent into the city. They had hidden themselves away near the border, but the city watch had become particularly active over the last day. The populace grew ever frenzied, causing uproars both within city walls and outside that could be heard from miles away. The appalling note of executions pierced above all sound, and seemed to peak when the small folk became ruthless in their needs for full bellies.

 

They held back in the thickness of a set of trees, and Arya cursed when a thick snow began to litter the ground. “It’s going to give our tracks away.”

 

“I’m going through the Dragon Gate - you two need to hold back as far as you can, and pass the Iron Gate without being seen,” Jaime said. “Maybe I can cause enough of a ruckus to draw more guards away and not get myself killed, and then you can slip your way onto the cliffside under the Red Keep. Beware, though - the stone is unforgiving if you get injured, and it may well have frozen over by now.”

 

Arya nodded, peering into the distance where the flicker of torches were so close she could make out each grasping arm of the flames. Then she returned her attention to Jaime. “Good luck out there. Don’t betray the queen or my brother, because I can make time to cut your throat.”

 

Jaime watched her with a deadpan expression, though didn’t appear threatened. “I would expect nothing less.” He offered the smallest of smiles and began to retrace his tracks so that he wouldn’t give away their location by approaching the road that would lead to the Dragon Gate. When he was out of view, Arya and the Hound shared a mutual look before they shuffled back into the trees, each step careful and tentative to not put their full weight on sticks or other bystanding objects. They likely were far enough to not be heard, but they would ruin their efforts if they grew lax for even the sour of a moment.

 

Neither of them barely breathed until Arya had pulled a few shredded pieces of cloth from her satchel and gave one to the Hound. He looked at her as if she were an idiot. Rather than speaking, she exhibited what the intention was, wrapping it around her nose and mouth and tying it securely at the back of her head. When she exhaled, no mist escaped, and with a roll of his eyes, he followed suit.

 

\---

 

Once the path became clearer to Jaime, he straightened himself and sidestepped smoothly onto it - the fog was so dense that not a pair of eyes would be able to tell the difference whether he had traveled the length of the road, or simply jumped out of the trees. It wasn’t a dreadfully long walk, and before he knew it, several of the gold cloaks approached with their weapons at the ready. Jaime raised his hands, and when the men absorbed who he was, they scoffed at each other.

 

“The queen struck gold twice, I see. Both of her disloyal bastards at her beck and call,” the young, brash guard huffed.

 

Jaime stared at them with a relaxed expression, knowing full well he could kill each of them single-handedly in the literal form with ease. “I’m simply returning to contribute to the safety of the city. The Night King will be here soon.”

 

The four guards cackled amongst each other, though Jaime was unsure over which point. The younger, brown-haired one quieted. “Save your breath for the queen, Kingslayer. You still believing in children’s tales? This was exactly what she expected when Euron captured that crippled brother of yours.” With a simple gesture of his head, the other three ravaged Jaime’s weapons, stripping him of his sword belt and dragon glass dagger to which one guard took a particular interest to. Jaime ignored his questionable sneer as his hands were bound behind his back and he was escorted in. Initially, he had half a mind to cut their throats before they laid hands on him, but this was the only sure way he could gain entry into the city.

 

His eyes glimpsed only succinctly off to the side where Arya and the Hound would be making their progress. Coincidentally, word traveled fast of Jaime’s arrival, and many more of the city watch had fled to see that it was truly him. It wasn’t that they feared him dead, but rather were perversely interested in how Cersei would react to his arrival. Because of the ruckus, it seemed he wouldn’t have to put forth any trouble to create a diversion.

 

The obstacle now was to stay alive in his sister’s hold.

 

\---

 

The city walls were within sight now, and had there not been a sliver of huts and houses lining the piece of land bordering the capital, Arya would have made a run for it. But the warm amber of the lights behind the windows told them it was civilians - they wouldn’t be a threat and could potentially be silenced without violence if they caught the two intruders, but even one out-of-place wail would alarm the entire guard.

 

To their benefit, the shroud of haze was lying low and sifting thickly across the land, but the gusts swept them and replaced them with a tumultuous momentum.

 

“It’s either this or we freeze to our deaths in Blackwater Bay,” The Hound muttered, his head gesturing over to the glisten of the bay a ways to their left. Arya wished it had been frozen through, giving them direct access to the rocky hills they sought.

 

“If we stay as close to the edge as possible, we can probably avoid most eyes...but look up there.” He followed Arya’s gaze to study the slow pace of the guards along the ramparts, though judging by their body language, they had been relatively lax as their cackles carried across the sea. The snow evenly coated the tundra below them, a sure disclosure of their movements.

 

“We’ve no other choice, girl,” he grumbled. “Walk normal as the small folk would; anything faster will get an arrow through our heads before we get three paces.”

 

Arya did a mental check list, internally memorizing where she had strategically placed all of her weapons and she slowly stood straight to her feet beside him. When they broke from the cover of the trees, they did their best to make brisk movement to erase the idea that they emerged from a hidden place at all, in hopes they could be as convincing as the common folk.

 

Neither of them breathed, pausing and continuing on, their eyes dancing wide-eyed between the silhouettes of the guards and the houses growing closer. Arya felt a deeper dread of cold; if felt as if every single person surrounding them were watching their every movement and were only waiting for them to make their run, her skin tickling with new-formed sweat. The girth of the Hound was most unlike the starving inhabitants of the city, and she was certain he would be dead before long.

 

They were halfway now, their postures as relaxed as they could allow, inching ever closer in their cautious stride, growing further perplexed that the guards of a prominent city and notorious queen could be so blind…

And then there was a shout off to their right, and Arya was quick to remember herself, not daring to whip her head in their direction to feed their suspicions, and she elbowed the Hound in his side to do the same. But as he blocked her from the view of the incoming guards, he shoved her hard onto the ground feet away from him with a growl of “ _ run, girl! _ ” and before she had even a breath’s notice to protest, he had begun marching his way to the guards, distracting them with heavy chatter in that he became lost along the Rosby Road and was seeking refuge in the city. 

 

As he conversed with them, Arya crawled hastily on her elbows, the slight incline of the terrain shielding some of her from those on foot, and she rolled swiftly toward the edge of the sea where a wall of dark boulders lay. The snow had yet to stick to their sea-laden surface, and she heaved herself forward whilst blending herself within the edge of the bay. In the distance, the Hound’s voice quickly began to fade into the open air, but the last thing she overheard was that the guards couldn’t not recognize the Hound, but she thanked the gods that she would not come to hear his blood being shed.

 

She hadn’t dared lift her face to find the post of the guards above, and finally, with great effort, she threw herself onto the treacherous slope of the mountainous stone walls that ran along the walls of the city. So long as she pressed herself flush against them, she could not be sighted from above nor to her left, and as her feet were quick to shuffle along the slick stone, the small village was lost from her view.

 

For a second she closed her eyes, her arms spread along the frozen masonry behind her, and her lips formed an ‘o’ shape as she steadied her raging heart. A few times she nearly lost her footing and wound up in the black sea below, but had managed to twist herself in abnormal angles to catch her fall.

 

With each step her heart pounded harder, even as the formation dipped inward and making it impossible for the guards above her, she was still unsure if the passages ever came to be populated. With the city overrun by small folk, she wouldn’t have doubted it. Finally, the familiarity of the stench of the sewers assaulted her nose, and she brushed round the corner until she was submerged in darkness.

 

Her breath stalled, her other senses becoming hyper aware when her eyes could no longer absorb anything before her, and she steadied herself along the jagged wall behind her. One foot crossed in front of the other, the soft deceiving trickle of the stream of water somewhere before her casting an echo down the tunnel. Finally, the faintest of an orange glow could be seen off in the distance around the curvature. A small, twinkling gleam twinkled along the water, and her eyes trailed the length of it while she picked up her pace to where she would find her destination.

 

And then something barbed and heavy and robust clamped around her ankle, and she had to use every bit of will not to scream into the tunnels where her voice would carry into the halls somewhere above her. She fell to her knees, a sweat rapidly developing at her brow and her shaking hands fumbled at her ankle where the object had caught her. She didn’t need any light to tell her that traps had been laid, though whom they were meant for she was unsure. Her fingers scrambled and her whole body convulsed as the pain radiated through her nerves, her heart frantic against her chest. She pricked her fingers at the sharp, jagged edges of the clamp and a few pulls moved it, and her strength was dwindling from the torment of the claws latched into her skin. The warmth of her blood was seeping into her clothing, and she had to wonder what it would have done had she not been bundled in winter layers.

 

Bearing her weight onto her other foot, she hobbled along the path, shuffling her foot along the stony ground to avoid stepping directly into any more traps. Her injured leg she balanced in the air, avoiding the clanking of steel against stone to draw attention to her movements. After more time than she would have liked, she reached a point where enough light had illuminated her, and she grimaced at the red that pooled into her outermost layers. 

 

She weighed her options, and she found a loose stone and pushed it with all of her might between the teeth of the steel clamp, and it tensed into the stone with such force that a thin crack formed down the middle. Her breathing grew quivering, and she found another slightly larger stone and packed it in until the mouth was expanding, and again and again she repeated herself until at last, a large enough gap freed her foot. The pain relieved somewhat, but she grew afraid that the blood loss would diminish her objective.

 

When she returned to a standing position, each step pulsed up throughout her leg, and she had to close her eyes and try to reset herself, convincing herself that the torment was only a figment of her imagination. It was enough to numb it, or perhaps it was nerve damage that assisted in it, but either way she began her journey down the tunnel. It opened to a large passageway, the walls rounded as they met the ceiling above. Black iron sconces with torches embedded in them lined either side of the walls, and now she had to squint her eyes through the sudden brightness.

 

It was a clear, open path which would make it easy for her if she trusted she wouldn’t be accompanied by anyone anytime soon. The walls curved inward to a point in an ebbing pattern along the tunnel, and Arya kept pressed against the rugged surface, following along the curvature. As she was rounding around to the other side, a voice too close for her comfort shook her from her position and she hastily dropped to her feet, cloaking herself behind the protrusion of the wall. Her left hand slid beneath her cloak and muffled the sound of Needle unsheathing.

 

There was no doubt now - the voices were descending upon her. From what she could tell, it was only two, but she would need to act quick to prevent an outburst. For a few seconds she closed her eyes, and when the footsteps grew close enough, she launched off her good foot, thrusting the point of Needle straight around the corner and into the throat of one of the gold cloaks, and just as the other one was drawing his weapon, the first man dropped to the ground with a gurgle. 

 

Arya was far too fast for the Lannister guard; already her hand was placed firmly over his mouth and her steel penetrating only through the vulnerable cloth between his plating. His hot breath panted into her grip. As she was going to move him away from the acoustics of the tunnel, he threw his leg behind him and made contact with her injured foot and her knees crunched onto the jagged floor below.

 

The guard’s longsword was drawn and as he heaved his arm down to cut through her skull, she tossed herself into a sideways roll and simultaneously, threw her arm parallel to the ground to slice through both of the man’s ankles half-deep. In a howl he collapsed and panic set in as his voice carried long and deep, and she soon was drawing needle with a quick whisp across his neck. It only took seconds for his suffering to conclude.

 

Remaining armed, she allowed some time to pass, but no further sound could be heard. She crouched down and withdrew a thin, smooth curved dagger and with reeling she cleanly carved the mask of the man’s face with a practised ease. When she peeled it away, muscle and cords of nerves exposed on the guard’s stripped features. Her eyes examined her surroundings once more before she collected handfuls of the stream just behind her and washed away the inner flesh clean of blood, and after she was satisfied with her work, delicately fit it over her own face, her skin adhering to the flesh as if it belonged to her. With adept hands she melded it to form and unfastened the guard’s armor, all of it far more heavy and cumbersome than the leathers and furs she wore. Finally, she mounted the helm onto her head, Arya fully hidden beneath the ruse of a Lannister guard.

 

With most of her weight relying on her right foot, she hopped along gingerly down the rest of the tunnels until she reached the stairwell. From here she could hear distant voices, though they weren’t immediately outside of the entryway.

 

She remembered this place like it was yesterday, when she was only a small girl that matured far too quickly in the span of an afternoon. The gold cloaks had been sent to fetch her, and Syrio and her father had both lost their lives within mere moments of one another. The stairwell beside her would lead her into an upper hall, and from there she would be completely exposed, but from the sound of it, it wasn’t a particularly busy passage.

 

Ascending the stairs without so much a crunch of her boots, she held her breath and gently eased open the iron door, her eyes darting along the sliver of an opening. All was clear, so she inched it open ever further, more and more and without any response, she opened it enough to only squeeze herself by, slowly latching it shut behind her. Glancing to her left and right, she recalled the throne room being to her right and the chambers to the left. If she were a betting woman she would have wagered Tyrion would have been stowed away in a cellar, but Lannisters  _ were _ arrogantly possessive of their own family, even if they despised them.

 

She turned on her heel and straightened to appear as natural as possible down the empty hall to her right; it wasn’t her original plan, but by now Jaime and the Hound would likely be in Cersei’s possession. With any luck, Tyrion would accompany her. It was almost too easy; she assumed most of the guard were assigned to protect the city gates now that two-thirds of their group was found within city limits without their knowledge.

 

In the narrow hall that would bring her to the throne room, guards were posted just outside the entrance. The throne room doors were within eyesight now, but she would be a fool to make herself known in such a way, the guard she posed as likely having been on a separate assignment. She strained her ears, and with each rise and fall of the collection of voices, she was able to affirm that everyone  _ was _ gathered in there. When the guards were otherwise distracted, she began down the other hallway. There was an alternate, read entrance to the throne room that would rest behind Cersei, and she was on a mission to find it.

 

\---

 

A day and a half had passed since they had departed Dragonstone, and Jon and Dany would shortly encroach upon the city. 

 

Just west of Stonedance, Drogon and Rhaegal had taken a short rest and their riders along with them, stretching their stiffened muscles from being sat so long. Their fleet needed time to catch up to them, and so far they hadn’t scouted any trouble from the skies, so Drogon and Rhaegal went off in search of a hearty meal. Jon and Dany were a whole altitude above sea level, upon a snow-dusted cliffside just under the low cloud cover. From where they stood, they could see land that stretched into oblivion, where the snow had fallen heaviest and trailed further south.

 

Prior to their rest, they caught a glimpse of the sun high above the clouds, and allowed themselves to take solace in its rarity before the gloom devoured it once more. Once the dragons returned and their ships caught up with them, they made way for King’s Landing.

 

It was late afternoon when Jon and Dany had been long-settled a distance away from the capital’s borders out of sight to the northeast. A deep chill was present and it felt more frigid than at Dragonstone. Their ships found land north of the city and their forces were marching to enclose on its walls and surrounding the city gates. Jon and Dany stayed in their saddles, the dragons growing restless as they bid their time to allow their artillery enough time to post themselves where they had intended.

 

And then the time came, and Jon and Dany shared a long stare at one another before Jon nodded at her, and she pressed herself against Drogon and he dove high into the clouds, Jon following just behind. Most of their view was shrouded, but the few slivers of clarity they had were enough to help determine their point of location, and Euron’s fleet quickly came into view. Dark wooden formations littered the sea far and wide. Jon forked to the opposite end of where Dany was going to ambush them.

 

Wrapping around, from the northeastern end of Blackwater Bay, Drogon and Rhaegal dove perpendicular to the bay, their warning of death looming piercing the tranquil scenery as they broke from the cloud cover and flew nearly straight down as their riders braced their arms against the momentum of their descent. The masses below bellowed with a jolt, scrambling on their decks to get their hands on the ballistas and prepare for dragon fire.

 

But they were far too late - at the east end, Drogon pivoted his body to lay flat with the earth and a brilliant heat of flame erupted mercilessly upon a long row of ships. At the western end, Rhaegal mimicked his brother, the inferno incinerating the next line of ships in a criss-cross with Drogon. As the ships burned and smoked, those who hadn’t been riddled in flame had pitched themselves off into the frozen sea below.

 

The dragons took to the skies, Jon’s heart in his throat as a thick scorpion arrow whizzed just past his ear before finding the cloak of the clouds again. Dany flew just over his head, and with another drop, a wrath of violent fire propelled from his menacing jaw, veering on his side to make a sharp turn and torch the outer ranks.

 

The Golden Company, in a safe distance from the flames, launched a thick bout of arrows into the rear of the armada, piercing masts and men alike. Harry was at the bow of his flagship, weapon drawn as he continued to give the orders until they would be close enough to fight close combat. Rhaegal dipped along the outer edges and set the ships aflame, then when he ascended into the air, Jon peered over his shoulder to find a half dozen arrows from the battlements deflecting loudly off of Drogon’s plated chest, the beast’s flourishing wrath screaming at his enemies and Jon felt a new dread wash through him.

 

His eyes scanned the sea before him and finally sought Euron’s ship, directing Rhaegal in its direction but immediately veering offtrack as the ballistas along the city walls moved into action and had a more equal playing field where the dragons were concerned. Jon urged Rhaegal up and taking one second to himself to breathe, Jon curved Rhaegal around and, from directly above their heads, rained the battlements ablaze and the archers were swallowed whole. Jon laid himself nearly flush against Rhaegal’s back, silently bidding him never to cease until the ramparts were clear of any threats. From where he could see, scorpions had only been posted along the walls bordering the bay.

 

As they enclosed on the last of them, Jon summoned all his strength to force Rhaegal away when an arrow grazed Jon’s shoulder, etching into the plating before ricocheting with a shrill pitch and falling away to the bay. The impact threw his shoulder sharply inward, and suddenly he was grateful for the straps that tied him securely to Rhaegal.

 

From below, Harry and his forces were closing in on The Iron Fleet, but then colossal harpoons were being launched from the Iron Fleet and in its impact, burst and splintered the Golden Company’s ships. Those who were less fortunate to be in their paths were penetrated with the same velocity and ruthlessly pinned to their deaths when they weren’t otherwise propelled into the water.

 

Without suppressing their defenses, Harry’s men pushed in, and though the casualties grew with each passing second, Harry demanded the order and the Golden Company’s forces hauled themselves onto the decks of the Ironborn. Swords clashed and bodies were collapsing in record time, and Harry fought his way through the thick of it, hopping up onto the bow of the ship and leaping over to the rear of the next and thrusting his sword across necks and arms where he could as his men followed behind him. The outer armada continued to deal great damage to Harry’s, but as the Golden Company forced their way and clashed ship-on-ship, they soon ceased fire and the bay turned into a cluster of tangled ships with each militia dueling tirelessly.

 

\---

 

Cersei had half-ran to the balcony when the collective shouting grew more and more intense, catching her attention when it was exclaimed that the dragons had arrived. She had been watching the scene unfold from the Red Keep, her eyes wide and her jaw set as the distan reptilian figures danced  practiced figures in the grey curtains of the sky. Qyburn had rushed to meet her, a sorrow painting his aging face as he drew his eyes to his queen, but she appeared more angry than frightful.

 

The thick black smog from the fire couldn’t be missed from where she stood, watching with a helplessness as the Iron Fleet disintegrated in some parts while the others became muddled with the Golden Company.

 

“Your Grace…,” Qyburn interrupted her daze; she had barely noticed his presence at all. “The city is surrounded; their numbers are far too great and I’ve gotten word that more northern forces have been spotted closing in on the King’s Road-”

 

“All of this information is worthless,” Cersei spat, silencing him. She turned to look at him now. “We have a plan. We will stick to that plan.”

 

Qyburn’s next words flickered out as soon as they began, and he offered her a somber smile and gentle bow. “Of course, Your Grace. How would you like to proceed with your prisoners?”

 

She turned to study the scene away at bay, then looked to him once more. “Fetch Tyrion and bring him to the throne room to join Jaime and the dog. Their final moments together shall be watching each other die.”

 

With that, Cersei made her way to the throne room, and Qyburn to Tyrion’s chambers.

 

\---

 

The ruckus that grew outside had Arya scrambling to find Tyrion; the guards within the halls were being forced to gather outside where it appeared that Jon and Daenerys had finally arrived. A long sigh of relief flooded her; she had spent the past several hours barely making any progress. Though she was able to remain well-hidden, the floors were in a constant state of patrol and there had been far more setbacks than she would have liked even under disguise.

 

Now that the keep was mainly abandoned, she found her way to a narrow, dark, spiral staircase. At the bottom she paused; a voice up ahead was speaking to someone, but it wasn’t one she was familiar with. Her brows creased as she strained her ears, and when she heard the man utter the words ‘your sister, the queen’, she knew she was in the right place. However, she was mere minutes too late, as Tyrion was just under her nose unaware to her.

 

In the late hours of yesterday evening, she had darted in and out of empty bed chambers, abandoned studies and small storage pantries in search of him, but to no avail. The keep was so vast and there hadn’t been any assurance he would have been kept there, but Jaime was not wrong on his word.

 

After understanding they wouldn’t be coming her way, she pinned her back against the smooth curved wall and kept many paces back, following their footsteps until she rounded her head around the corner and just caught sight of their backs turning down another hall. With another glance back, she crouched low below the open windows and stopped behind the pillar ahead. She stalled, and when the voices trailed deeper into the hall, she followed.

 

The archway was dark and a long journey, one wall opened to small windows to alleviate the shadows. Up ahead a short stairway with wide steps lead into the throne room. In the distance far away, she could hear destruction and faint shouting, and she wished nothing more than to see what was happening. Each step she took was made with great care, and the closer she became the clearer the voices were.

 

\---

 

When Tyrion was escorted in, the last person he had expected to see was his brother in bonds, joined by the Hound who was glowering at his half-dead brother at Cersei’s shoulder. Jaime’s face softened when his eyes set upon him, then clenched his jaw when he came to notice the welt at his face and the healing one on his forehead. He was far thinner, and his clothes becoming tattered. Qyburn brought him down to stand beside Jaime, then returned to Cersei’s side.

 

Cersei considered Jaime for a long while, scrutinizing. “I heard your treason was all for nothing.”

 

Jaime grimaced and gazed hard into her. “I kept my word to fight against the dead; that is not liken to treason. And it was not all for nothing.”

 

Her lip pulled in a restrained smirk. “You  _ left _ me,” she seethed through her teeth, her temper escalating. “I told you not to go, and you did anyway. You left, and our child  _ died _ !”

 

There was a visible shift of confusion in Jaime’s face then; Tyrion had assumed this to be true, but at her confession he looked up at his brother with sympathy. He had no love for his sister, but his brother lost a child, and Tyrion a nephew or niece.

 

“I could not have known-” Jaime began, but Cersei’s wrath only flourished.

 

“If you had listened to my order, you could have been there with me. I wasted away; I nearly bled to death myself.”

 

Jaime’s words caught in his throat, and he swallowed them with a hard push and averted his eyes. The Hound never removed his eyes from his brother, and he to the Hound.

 

“Why are you here?” Cersei pressed.

 

Jaime looked to her again, his lips moving but words not forming for a long moment. “To reach an armistice...and...to bring our child and brother back to safety.”

 

“An armistice?” Cersei cocked her head, an eyebrow lifted high as she scoffed. “As we speak your queen is decimating the Iron Fleet. That’s hardly an invitation for a truce.”

 

Jaime frowned and nearly dared to grin. “The Iron Fleet ambushed Dragonstone under your order. They killed hundreds, one of them being the closest advisor of the queen, and then you apprehended Tyrion...for what purpose, exactly?”

 

A sinister smile spread across Cersei’s lips. “You know as well as I the contempt I’ve always held for the imp. If there were even a glimmer of affection between us, it died when he chose to oppose me as his queen in favor of another. He killed our mother. He killed our father. Or is that all not enough for you?”

 

“This conversation is worthless,” Tyrion interrupted with a strain stringing his voice, gawking at no specific point of the floor. Everyone’s attention focused on him. “She’s going to detonate the remaining wildfire and we’re all going to die. This conversation...is worthless.”

 

Jaime frowned deeply and he looked between his siblings, to Cersei with an expression of dread and doubt in the hope that she would deny it. But nothing came except for a look of pride.

 

\---

 

As the Golden Company became interlaced with the Iron Fleet, Jon and Dany made work of the outer most ships, though many of them had since been abandoned. The scorpions along the city walls had been destroyed, and Harry was fighting his way through the masses, reaching the halfway point until he would reach the flagship and Euron.

 

At the bow, Euron had remained untouched, surrounded by his fleet who were absorbing the assaults, and he sat at the helm of his ballista and heaved an arrow toward Drogon, who craned his body in a deep shape as it pierced smoothly through the bottom of Dany’s cloak. She winced at its proximity, gritting her teeth as they circled around and Jon was soon trailing behind her.

 

Side by side the dragons enclosed on Euron, and he grinned a wicked grin, but just as he went to launch, two of his archers each ripped an iron arrow through Rhaegal’s left wing. Rhaegal hollered a shrill shriek into the air, wobbling unevenly as Jon grunted at the sudden jolt from the impact and tried to steer him to safety. Drogon hurled a vicious wall of flame on the offenders and Dany struggled to spot where Jon and Rhaegal had gone off to as her blood boiled at her child’s pain, but Drogon was unyielding and threw a sharp turn until he reached Euron, and Euron dove into the bay as his ship was scorched and sinking before he could draw another breath.

 

Dany urged Drogon upward until they were out of sight once more, frantically inspecting each small gap in the haze in hopes that she would find Jon. Instead, she rounded around the capital into a clearing to where a standoff was being held at each gate to the city between their forces and the Lannister’s. From her point of view over to her side, not a speck of ground could be seen amidst the masses of people brimming to the edges, wedged and compacted impossibly within their enclosure.

 

Drogon’s booming growl echoed along all below her, though the only ones who balked were those who had never set eyes upon a dragon. When she was over the Kings Road, her eyes narrowed at the thick crowd of people marching in both on foot and horseback. When Drogon came into their view, the horses threw themselves back onto their rear legs, nearly tossing their riders. Several sigils proudly displayed at the front of each division; a fish above water, a falcon swooping into a crescent moon, a black lizard-lion against a green field, a merman wielding a trident...and the rest quickly came out of view, but it was all she needed as a new surge of hope coursed through her.

 

When her attention shifted to her left, the Dothraki and Unsullied and northmen were soon flanked and supported at the rear as houses divided to join their militia. Back in the skies, she caught a glimpse of Rhaegal in the distance upon a hill that was set back; they were to wait for a signal to ensure a surrender, but none had come yet even given their greater advantage, so she made land and quickly dismantled herself.

 

Jon had only just freed the single wedged arrow from Rhaegal’s peripheral finger of his wing, but not without great protest as his head and jaws whipped around to nearly bite Jon’s head off. He stumbled onto his back and Dany was quick to dive in front of him, holding out her hands to steady him as her eyes quickly absorbed the damage. It would be nothing more than a flesh wound for him, but the hide of his wing now bore an oblong hole and the bony structure was bloodied by the second arrow. Rhaegal snorted with a low rumble as Dany smoothed her hand along his snout, wordlessly reassuring him that he had nothing to worry about.

 

Bringing himself back to his feet, Jon was wide-eyed and pale as he kept his distance from the beast, his heart pounding as he had just witnessed his life blaze before his eyes. Without breaking eye contact with Rhaegal, Dany reached behind her and motioned for Jon to join her. Dubiously he did, and she collected his hand to replace it with where hers had been. For a moment Rhaegal appeared unforgiving, but soon his eyes relaxed and he greeted Jon with a displeased rumble, but at the least Jon would be spared the next few minutes.

 

\---

 

Harry was surrounded by smoke and flame and ships were beginning to collapse around him, masts giving away and splintering hulls upon collision. They were highly successful on ravaging the Iron Fleet - though several remained, many of them were either abandoning their ships or dying by the strength of the Golden Company. But Harry’s eyes had been focused on Euron, who had been fast to dodge the dragon fire, and he knew nobody could survive long in the frigid waters.

 

He climbed the treacherous wooden figured, tentative in each step as it would be easy to mistake what was a firm structure versus what was beginning to crumble away. The smoke grew thick and his vision was rapidly diminishing. Distant shouts that he couldn’t comprehend were growing with fervor; the port was still a long reach from where he was, and activity on land was suddenly expeditious. Thinking nothing of it, he craned his neck until his eyes set upon Euron who was struggling to keep abreast in the frigid waters, his gasps audible even from a far range. 

 

As he contemplated his options, he frowned and jumped down onto the main deck of one of the only ships left whole, his hands grasping the ledge as he stared down into his reflection. Only it was becoming increasingly fractured, fissures great and small splitting down the brisk formation of ice along the surface. His breath trapped in his throat and watched  as the haze grew thicker and the air colder, the voices on land becoming more frantic. He swung his head around but could no longer see much beyond his immediate surroundings, and his chest tightened as he launched himself up onto the bow, the faintest shadow of the ship in front of him either deceivingly close or within his reach.

 

The dead were here, and he was stranded at sea.

 

He took a few paces back and with all that he had, leapt forward and off the ship, his ribs landing forcefully into the ledge of an unseen part of the ship before him. He grunted at the force of his plating thudding against his ribs, and crawled up with his elbows only to find air. He stumbled and clung onto the piece beneath him, his breath a thick misty cloud now.

 

\---

 

Jon didn’t need to wait around for any indication that the dead had arrived; the abrupt shift in their surroundings was enough to tell him what they were about to face.

 

“Go, hurry,” he breathed and ushered Dany back to Drogon, hoisting her up with urgency as she strapped herself into her saddle without protest. When Jon ran back to Rhaegal, she watched as he mounted him with as much grace as he could in his imperativeness, and a newfound dread washed over her as their environment grew darker as night approached and the Night King would be upon them. When Jon was tethered, he hastily commanded Rhaegal to search for Melisandre. Dany followed behind him, almost forgetting to breathe now.

 

\---

 

The clamor in the halls aggravated Cersei, distracting her from her reverie in knowing that she would satisfactorily die on her own time, by her own hands, and everyone she hated most would suffer for it. Everyone else began to move uncomfortably. With a subtle nod, the gold cloaks came from behind to restrain her prisoners further.

 

Arya, standing in the halls behind, watched with dread, mentally calculating her next move. Any intention she had was thwarted when footsteps drew closer, and a group of gold cloaks were fast approaching. They hadn’t immediately taken notice of her having been cloaked in the shadows, but then they called out to her asking what she was doing her, and she had to remind herself she wasn’t  _ she _ .

 

“Humfrey! What are you doing up here, eavesdropping on the queen’s council? You should be at the Dragon Gate with your command,,” one of the guards scolded.

 

The sudden disruption pulled Cersei’s attention away and Tyrion craned his head to narrow his eyes as the gold cloaks joined them; Arya blended in with them, silent as she mimicked their gait.

 

The men bowed in Cersei’s presence, and the one who spoke was out of breath from his trek to the Red Keep. “Your Grace, my apologies, but we must call for surrender at once. The Iron Fleet has been laid to waste and we are far outnumbered; they have thousands of forces and northern alliances have just marched upon the city.”

 

“The weather has grown queer, Your Grace,” said the other, his brows raised and eyes desperately wide as if that would convince Cersei. “It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen; people are becoming frantic and nightfall is almost here. There’s a new chill in the air. What will you have us do?”

 

“You haven’t told them about the army of the dead?” Jaime berated her, and the Lannister guards regarded Cersei with an inquisitive stare.

 

Arya shifted on her feet, her eyes darting over to the Hound; with a subtle movement of her arm, she noiselessly slid her hand up to her waist where just her pommel could be seen. When she still hadn’t caught his attention, she took one step backward, and finally his eyes landed on hers and down to where the pads of fingers ever so slightly tapped along the pommel. He looked to her once more, expression never faltering, before returning to Cersei. It was a wordless exchange, but she knew he understood now.

 

“What would be the point, dear brother?” Cersei mocked in response to his question. “As Ser Osfryd said, we are far outnumbered. We have been since the Golden Company decided to break faith and fight for the Targaryen wench.”

 

The Lannister guards shared looks between themselves, having only just learned that the tales of walking dead men were in fact not a tale at all, and were going to overrun the city.

 

“You were well before that,” Tyrion chimed. “Daenerys has the largest army the world has ever seen, and that was before Jon bent the knee.”

 

“The dead fuckers are coming,” The Hound growled loudly, heads turning to acknowledge him. “And I have something I need to settle before I die.”

 

Everything happened at once: The Hound whipped around to one of the gold cloaks behind his shoulder, butting the rear of his head hard into the man’s face until he was bloodied and kicked in all the fragile places his plating hadn’t covered. Tyrion stumbled away, and within seconds, Arya withdrew Needle, her friends quickly ambushed by the other guards as she stood where she was. In an instant she lunged forward, grabbing one of the gold cloaks by their shoulders and swiftly drew her blade clean across his neck as his pretty golden armor was smeared with blood, dropping to the floor.

 

The havoc that ensued in that moment had everyone altercating; Cersei stared wide-eyed and stunned at what appeared to be a traitor in their midst; her friends were  contending with the other Gold Cloaks, but Tyrion kept himself far and away from the commotion. Arya knew then, as the Mountain began to descend the stairs toward her, that she needed to act fast.

 

Kicking one of the guards hard in the back, the Hound became visible to her and she slashed his bonds free as he took hold of the longsword of the fallen guard. The Hound took out two others and Arya became sidetracked against four of them as the Mountain heaved heavy legs toward his brother who had his back turned. She freed Jaime, who frowned deeply at her, but came to recognize her sword; nobody else had one such as hers.

 

Just as the Hound rounded, two guards hauled him backwards by his shoulder until he fell onto his back and his head whipped against the hard floor, a white flash blinding him briefly. The Hound threw his weight against them when he returned to his feet, all of them falling to the floor and The Mountain closed the distance with his great longsword ready to dive into his flesh.

 

At some point unseen, Cersei had vanished without a trace along with Qyburn. When all of the Gold Cloaks had been executed, Arya ran as fast as her legs would carry her and threw her full weight into the Mountain, but he merely stumbled. Her chin caught his shoulder with a crunch, and she withdrew her dagger and dove it with a shout into his neck. Not even a whimper sounded from him, but rather his massive hand gripped her neck as easily as the hilt of a sword and lifted her from the ground.

 

Her legs kicked frantically and her breathing subsided, choking for any air she could find, feeling her extremities quickly numbing. A guttural cry sounded from behind her and she was suddenly being thrust to the floor across the room; the Hound having used all of his might to crash into his brother and send him soaring onto his back.

 

“Take him and go, girl!” He shouted with a strain, and it took her a second to comprehend all of what was unfolding; Jaime watched with uncertainty, Tyrion stunned in place, and the Mountain was resetting as the Hound returned to his feet with his sword at the ready.

 

“You’ll die!” She shouted back, but the voice was a stranger to her.

 

For the first time his eyes begged her to listen to him. “You will too if you don’t leave  _ nowi!  _ Don’t worry about Cersei! She won’t survive the night; get the queen her Hand back. Take Ser Jaime with you.  _ GO! _ ”

 

His voice transitioned into a frightening bark, and she hated that tears welled in her eyes. Obeying his wish, she glanced over to Jaime who nodded for her to do as the Hound bid, and she grabbed Tyrion by his elbows and sprinted off into the halls without looking back. Jaime followed behind them and when they were a distance away, Arya stopped and ripped off the mask and tore at the armor. Her ankle throbbed tremendously, but she only noticed how bad it was now.

 

Tyrion watched with his jaw agape, opening and closing but words failing to appear. Then he looked to his brother.

 

“I’m going to find Cersei,” Jaime announced breathlessly, his eyes pleading that no one stop him.

 

“You can’t-” Tyrion began, but already his face was crumbling. Arya gently cut his bonds free, growing anxious as they stalled.

 

“You know that I have to,” Jaime said. “You know what she’s capable of; what she’s about to do.”

 

Lips trembling, Tyrion fell forward into Jaime’s arms and he embraced him tightly. His heart wanted nothing less than to drag him along, to beg him not to follow through, but his mind knew that Jaime was right. When they parted, Jaime held Tyrion’s shoulders firmly.

 

If it weren’t for you, I never would have survived my childhood. You were the only one that didn’t treat me like a monster. You were all I had,” Tyrion said, trembling. Jaime could only nod as he pulled him in one final time.

 

“Ser Jaime,” Arya called softly, and he brought his attention to her over Tyrion’s shoulder. “Our queen will come to know all you sacrificed for her...for everyone. I’ll see to that.”

 

When Jaime and Tyrion parted, she reached out her hand and he clasped it in a shake. With a nod and a slight smile, he looked down at his brother one final time before turning on his heel to seek his sister.

 

As Arya and Tyrion half-ran to the nearest exit, she inlatched her dragonglass dagger and pressed it into Tyrion’s arms. He took hold of it, making a face. “I don’t know how to fight, my lady.”

 

“You will when you need to,” she retorted, passing around a corner where the doors lay ahead. “But for now, find somewhere safe to hide; you know the city better than anyone. We need to find a way to get the common folk out as fast as possible.”

 

“There is nowhere to hide,” Tyrion said flatly. “I’m afraid those of us who are not sword savvy will perish.”

 

Arya grimaced, turning her eyes on him as they stopped just before the doors. An uproar of the masses could be heard for what seemed to be miles. “You  _ will _ find a way; I didn’t come here for nothing. Do you understand me?”

 

It was less a question and more of a demand as she spun on her heel and pushed open the door; for a beat he stood speechless, then found his footing again as they braced for the dead.

 

\---

 

In the air, visibility was scarce, and Rhaegal dipped lower beneath the clouds until they were soaring above their militia. Twilight set and was making it further impossible to seek out the red priestess.  As Jon’s eyes scouted the ground for any sign of her, his eyes were instead met with a brilliant display of Dothraki arakhs coming alight with flames, a fluid stream of light that illuminated the ground and the faces around them. He looked over his shoulder to see Dany was trailing behind him, then pivoted to where the first arakh had been lit.

 

In a clearing, he grounded Rhaegal, and Dany landed at his side whilst remaining mounted. Melisandre awaited him patiently, her arms hidden deep within her vibrant red robes. When he hopped off Rhaegal, a small smirk graced her lips.

 

He watched her with reservation; this was the woman who had summoned him back to life, but burned a child alive against her will. If what the red witch prophesied was true, it would encompass both her dignity and wrongdoings, to serve the realm by promising the Spring, and perishing in retribution for her sins. 

 

When she came upon Jon, her face was mostly unreadable. “Do not look so miserable, Your Grace,” she said. “I have lived beyond my years, and I’ve grown tired. I’m ready to surrender myself to meet R’hllor at long last.”

 

Jon grimaced slightly. “Tell me what I need to do.”

 

The two priestesses at Melisandre’s shoulders assisted in peeling away her cloak, and her other garments were soon to follow. Jon swallowed, and Dany watched intently. Melisandre’s face persisted to stay unchanged; not even a shiver in her bare skin could shake her. Her eyes met his for a beat before her head nodded at Lightbringer, and Jon followed suit, his heart beginning to palpitate at the unknown. All eyes were on them, visibly perplexed.

 

Melisandre sank down to stand on her knees, and the priestesses created a distance from behind her. “After I recite the prayer, you must not stall. You will drive Lightbringer into my breast, and thus the flame will ignite.”

 

Jon bit the inside of his cheek and nodded shortly, rooting his feet firmly in the terrain below him and grasping the hilt with both hands inflexibly

 

Melisandre closed her eyes and turned her face upward toward the sky, her arms overturned and out at her sides. “Lord of Light; come to us in our darkness. In exchange I offer you my heart, body, soul, blood, and courage, for the night is dark and full of terrors.  _ Āeksios Ōño, aōhos ōñoso īlōn jehikās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys! _ ”

 

Her back arched and without pause, Jon heaved the blade over his head and drove the point through her flesh and bone, and the shrill, resounding scream as her face twisted into agony shook Jon, her body only being supported now by the girth of the blade. Jon hadn’t realized he was gasping until the priestesses came behind the red woman and gently brought their arms beneath her to reinforce her weight. Dany’s eyes were wide with wonder and her brows slanted with worry. Melisandre’s curdling scream was quick to dissolve into a hushed rattle until there was nothing left. When her face relaxed, her mouth parted open and the life vanished from her eyes, in turn her face and body relaxed, and Jon could have sworn that her pale face reflected a peacefulness as if she had been granted a long-denied desire.

 

For what felt like an age, nothing had happened, and Jon fell to his knees with his head hung, glancing over at Dany who gaped, unable to comprehend the scene before her.

 

But then there was a flourish of warmth, and he knew that it wasn’t the heat of Melisandre’s chilling body that was casting it. A warm glow reflected off the snowy tundra below, and one of the priestesses directed him to relieve Melisandre of his blade. When he did so, the great flames embellished the steel in a flurry, and Jon marveled at it, his mouth fallen agape that it  _ worked _ .

 

And then something caught Jon’s eye. A creeping shroud of snow was rolling in from high in the skies, deep within the mountains.

 

“They’re here!” He shouted, and the crowds began to waver and turn in the northwestern direction, Jon hiking himself up onto his saddle upon Rhaegal. When he rotated, his eyes met Dany’s. “I love you,” he said, his voice almost pained.

 

“I love you,” she returned, and they both returned to the air. The gates opened then, but rather than fight, the Lannister army poured out to see for themselves. Not far off were the glottal, sickening snarls of the dead, yet to be seen in the dark of night. When a guard commanded all to fall back within the city, he was met with protest that there hadn’t been enough space; the one million civilians were hardly thriving as it was, and the ranks would have to remain outside the gates.

 

A reign of red fire doused the front lines of the dead then, capturing everyone’s attention as  Drogon soared above them and cast a burning light along the faces of the dead still yet to come. Rhaegal followed, scorching in his brother’s wake, the blaze of Lightbringer flaring vividly against the blackness. The dragons continued to weave back and forth, and their numbers were endless. Jon could only just make out their figures against the snowy field, a sea of black and broken movements as long as it was wide.

 

\---

 

Harry had nearly reached the port, his men behind him in pursuit of land but repressed by the conditions. A shrill, ear-splitting screech pierced the winter atmosphere from behind, and when Harry craned his head to look up, it fell dead silent for a moment.

 

Then a merciless blue flame protruded violently down on them at the bay, replacing the red fire with blue, and the black silhouette of a dragon fell into view. Harry stumbled and almost forgot how to use his legs as he became crippled with fear, outstretching his leg to reach the rear of the ship in front of him, but he could already feel the encompassing heat. With another blast, the blue flames swallowed Ser Harry as he roared in agony and lost all control of his body as he burned wildly aboard the deck.

 

The Night King mounted upon Viserion encircled the fleet of the Golden Company, blue fire licking furiously into the skies as the armada and sea surrounding them burned. A few courageous men gathered their bows and began launching arrows at Viserion, but he was far too fast and they too unacquainted with dragons. Before long, they became engulfed, and the Night King disappeared high up into the clouds.

 

The distinct hue of the flames captured Jon’s attention, and he influenced Rhaegal up higher, abandoning those on the ground. He could not see beyond Rhaegal’s head and the winter winds whipped into his ears, straining to find the Night King while the city braced themselves as best they could. Just as he was arcing around the Red Keep, something slammed into Rhaegal’s body with a force that would have knocked Jon off had he not been restrained. There was a melody of cries and in the mist the blue glowing eyes of the Night King penetrated the grey as Viserion stretched his neck and snapped at Rhaegal, who screamed back before they each twisted and encircled one another, Jon ducking as low as he could without losing sight of the Night King.

 

Rhaegal bit into Viserion’s neck, and their bodies twirled as Viserion’s talons found Rhaegal’s neck at the fleshy opening where the plating hadn’t covered and slashed a laceration along it. A third body closed in and Drogon dropped, his feet grabbing Viserion with him as they descended so far down they were beneath the clouds. The people below who were unfamiliar with their like screamed in terror at the sudden appearance of the beasts over their heads, falling over each other in the event they would crumble to the ground.

 

Jon’s heart sunk into his stomach as he whipped Rhaegal around, eyes scouring until he dipped low and found Dany and Drogon alone, the Night King having escaped their grasp. With a single look Dany confirmed for him that she was unhurt, though her eyes worried over the gash gleaming at her. When they next flew over, hoards of the dead came clashing with their forces, flaming arakhs swiping through the masses and trailing embers behind them, longswords and daggers and the choking cries of the dead intermingling, arrows airborne and sinking into the dead bodies, but Jon knew they were going to be overrun; both dragonglass and Valyrian steel were severely limited, and it would only be a vicious cycle until the living exhausted themselves. It wouldn’t be long now before the city would be overrun.

 

Soaring level beneath the coverage, Jon’s eyes set on a formation of white walkers, and he pressed Rhaegal closer, their silvery-blue faces turning upward to acknowledge his arrival and Rhaegal encompassed them with fire. As they flew over, Jon looked over his shoulder only to find the flames were repelled by the walkers themselves, though continued to burn around them. He grunted and his breathing shallowed, knowing now that their bodies were so glacial that fire was ineffective against them. It only rendered his Valyrian longswords all the more critical. But he would have to ground himself, and as there were at least one hundred walkers, the Night King was the only sure chance to defeat them all with as less damage and death as possible.

 

\---

 

The Hound grappled to get to his feet and pulled his sword from the lifeless guard that had disarmed him earlier. The Mountain descended on him with a slow assurance, and the Hound sneered at him.

 

“Ugly fucker, you are,” he growled quietly, walking small wide circles around him. The Mountain’s great longsword was double the girth of his own, but he refused to die without taking down with him. He lunged quickly and his blade was immediately caught in the steeled hand of his brother, pulling the Hound toward him with a force that nearly made him collide into his golden plating. The Mountain thrashed the Hound onto the ground and he recovered just as his brother’s steel clashed and splintered the floor just beside his ear, throwing himself back onto his feet..

 

The Hound recollected his steel swiftly, and drew his arm aside to slash a thick meaty part of the Mountain’s calf, but he was unaffected - and he barely bled, least not as a human would. The Mountain swung his arms around and his blade thrashed parallel to the ground and the hound ducked, bending backwards in an unnatural angle as the wind that trailed the Mountain’s movement blew over his skin, and the Hound heaved his sword with such a force that the Mountain’s helm knocked off, falling to the floor with a loud clang as his brother’s swollen, purple-veined and red-eyes face became exposed to him.

 

The Hound snarled, revolted by his disfigurement just as his brother had done to him after he threw him into the coals as a child. Again and again their blades met and clashed, the momentum shivering their blades and piercing their ears with a shrill, teeth-gnashing sound. The Hound had an advantage being more slight than his reanimated brother, though the brute strength of the Mountain tired him quicker than any typical swordsman. Finally, he drove his blade through the Mountain’s chest armor, but he still didn’t succumb, so he pushed further and deeper until the point of his blade protruded out of his back.

 

The Mountain ripped the sword from him nearly as fast as it had been penetrated, driving his fist into the Hound’s face with a crack that ensured a broken nose. He fell to the floor, grimacing at the substantial pain radiating into his sinuses. Before he could recollect himself, a steel foot was thrust into his ribs, choking on his own lack of air at the impact as he rolled onto his back, wondering if this was his moment to die.

 

Instead, he rolled toward the Mountain and drove his sword across his inner thigh with as much pressure as he could, and finally he made progress; it cut so deep bone became exposed and there was a slight descent in the Mountain’s stance. Taking advantage of his brief weakness, the Hound mimicked his attack to the other leg, eliciting the same result as he returned to his feet and slashed, thrust, hacked, pierced everywhere he possibly could, but still his efforts were mostly wasted.

 

He doubled over trying to find his breath, his brother littered with gashes and unnatural openings that would otherwise kill a man. “How do I kill you, huh?”

 

Silently, the Mountain walked to his brother, catching his blade mid-air again, and this time butt his head into the hound’s forehead, sending him back to the floor. As they grew closer to the window, he quickly realized he was being cornered, and his head began to swim. He withdrew his dagger but the Mountain grasped his wrist, his other hand enclosing around the Hound’s throat and squeezing until he was gasping for air.

 

The Mountain held him solely by his neck and threw his fist into the middle of the Hound’s chest, and he was certain it had caved, for the excruciating suffering he felt then was almost enough for him to beg for his death. In a desperate effort and the life leaving his eyes, The Hound ruthlessly stabbed into the Mountain’s neck as he walked him to the window and then with his very last bit of strength, drove the blade full into the Mountain’s eye. An unhuman noise erupted from his brother’s throat then, and he lost his footing, faltering forward until their bodies collided with the glass as they both fell into the void below.   
  
_(to be continued in part 2...)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends!!  
> A bit later than normal because this is a MASSIVE chapter! I write on Google docs and my average is 16 pages per chapter - this chapter was 48!!! As I said in the beginning notes, part 2 will be up very shortly, just want to go over it and tidy it up a bit and make sure everything is as it should be. <3


	18. Part XVIII - The Last War (2 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Don't forget to read Part 1 (posted before this one) of this chapter first!!**

Arya found her way into the heart of the city where civilians were running in every which direction, trampling over each other without a second thought and seeking shelter that would soon be rendered useless. With a slight limp, she fought her way through the thickness of the waves of people, her eyes scanning the skies and the point in front of her.

 

And then she heard it; the unmistakable intonation of a non-living being, but multiplied by the thousands. Needle was gripped firmly in her hand as she shoved through the crowd, against the grain as they sought a destination furthest away from the enemy. But the scene before her when she lifted her eyes caused her jaw to fall open; withered, abhorrent figures were climbing the inner walls and the gate nearest her had been breached. As they filtered in, the common folk were being devoured with hardly a fighting chance. They were powerless, defenseless, and were dying faster than they could come to understand what it was that was killing them.

 

Before it would become too late, she darted off behind a set of pillars and then a long alleyway that hadn’t been quite as populated, snaking her way through until she backed into a door and hastily stepped in. The sound of shuttered breathing made her whip around; a group of adults and children had gathered in the darkness, and Arya brought a finger to her lips to hush them as she looked about the room. She bound up the stairwell and came to a landing, pulling open the shutters of the window a few stories high and observed the sight from her perspective. It was then that she grew uncertain of her own mortality; her eyes could barely make out who was who now in the cluttered mob of bodies all tangled and thrashing on top of each other; dead men, living men, Lannister forces and their own, all fighting in a jumbled mess and she couldn’t tell who was winning.

 

A shriek in the sky above her caused her to crouch down reflexively, the Night King soaring above her head until another dragon hauled its body into Viserion with a thunder, and Arya squinted her eyes but it was too dark for her to see whether it was Jon or Dany. She collected herself before she knew her next move, and she dashed down the stairs and out of the building to her unknown destination.

 

\---

 

On the balcony of the Red Keep, Cersei watched the city crumble in front of her in the company of her Hand; as if it had been put on for her entertainment. At some point Jaime had found her and slowly came to stand beside her, his body growing cold at the destruction.

 

Without acknowledging his arrival, Cersei spoke. “You should be with your people, Ser Jaime.”

 

“I am,” he said plainly, causing her to turn toward him, though he did not look at her.

 

“I find it hard to believe that you will have forgiven me so easily,” she retorted.

 

“Is it true? About the wildfire?”

 

Blankly, she watched him. “Yes.”

 

For a beat he did not speak, but instead considered his options as red and blue flame combusted in the sky, and when the sky became illuminated, the brilliant silhouettes of dragons fighting to the death provided a chilling sight. It felt strange for him to be standing here unmoving while everyone else was out there.

 

The dead were closing in on the middle of the capital, and when the dragons flew closer in a grapple, Cersei’s eyes narrowed.

 

“There are two dragon riders,” she observed, and Jaime finally turned his attention to her.

 

“Yes.”

 

It was evident that Cersei was getting worked up, suddenly fidgeting and trying her best to stay composed. “In history, the only riders a dragon would accept were Targaryens. There is only one Targaryen left.”

 

A small smile pulled Jaime’s lips. When he didn’t confirm nor deny, her hardened eyes bore into his, pressing him for answers.

 

“Jon Snow,” he said as if it were common sense to all by now. “It’s a long and trying tale, but as it turns out, he is the legitimate son to Rhaegar and Lyanna. They were wed; the high septon who married them recorded it in a private diary. He is the true heir to the crown. His name is Aegon Targaryen.”

 

Cersei’s jaw set and her cheek muscles protruded in her denial; with each piece of information he fed her, her intolerance accelerated. Qyburn observed them silently. “It makes no matter. Look out there...none of us stand a chance.”

 

“We do.”

 

“Why are you speaking in riddles? I’ve never thought you to be so clever,” she spat.

 

“I’m only biding my time for a moment longer.”

 

Cersei scoffed at him, her expression belittling. “Until what, exactly?”

 

“My eventual death, I suppose.”

 

\---

 

Down on the ground, Ser Jorah fought valiantly, Theon and Ironborn surrounding him as they battled back-to-back as the floods of the dead encompassed them. It had been nothing like he had seen before; even in their quest beyond the wall, the numbers then seemed impossible, but now he wondered how they would ever get out of it alive. The sounds of gurgling dead embedded with the sound of men dying around him almost numbed his ears at its volume. Common folk scattered helplessly to the far, opposite end toward the Red Keep, which was now the only area not overrun yet. But within minutes it would be just as impractical as the rest of the city’s strongholds, as the dead were pouring in and filling the streets and walls and tearing people apart by their limbs. The Lannister army had subconsciously joined in the defense of the city, though too many of them were too paralyzed by fear until they were executed.

 

No matter how quickly they made work of them, Jorah would kill five dead men only to be replaced by countless more. When he came upon a stretch of houses, a group of children had been cowering behind a collapsed valance, and he dove in front of them as hoards of dead men descended from the rooftops to the streets.

 

Arya jumped down from a high window as smoothly as the wind, hoisting the point of her dragonglass spear forward, puncturing a slew of wights in their chest before pulling her weapon back as they crumbled. With Theon and Jorah at her side, they defended the children long enough for Jorah to shout at them to find somewhere else to run, to which they did, but then a wight grabbed the ankle of a small girl and the life left her before Jorah could reach her. He grit his teeth and refocused, sporadically looking to the skies to locate Dany only to catch glimpses of orange glowing behind the haze.

 

\---

 

After a grueling dragon battle, Jon and Dany found the solace of the brisk night sky higher than they had ever gone, the full, bright moon almost blinding in its presence. Sweat glistened along Jon’s brow and Dany scanned the seemingly boundless air below, but the Night King was nowhere to be found. There could be no time to waste, so after shaking off their frayed nerves, they dipped below again.

 

Just as Jon was passing into clarity, his body was thrown in a twist in his seat and Rhaegal sent soaring as Viserion smashed his half-rotted body into Rhaegal, initiating dragon cries to be heard from the moon itself. Rhaegal sunk on his back into the air, and once he regained his strength, pivoted as his wings and tail demolished the length of rooftops below, sending people further running from the shattering structure.

 

Rhaegal dove into Viserion, and Jon grunted from the force, his hand beginning to ache from his tight hold along Rhaegal’s spine. When Jon sat up to seek the Night King, Viserion’s ghastly jaws snapped so close to Jon’s face he could smell his decayed breath, hauling himself over to avoid a beheading. Before he could recover Viserion made his attempt again, this time ripping his cloak clean off his shoulders.

 

Fueled by fury in his rider’s peril, Rhaegal adopted an energy and his great wings heaved deeply in the air, his teeth clamping on every bit of Viserion he could reach, his talons raking where his teeth couldn’t. In a rage he fastened a vise grip at Viserion’s jaw and with a forceful jerk, tore off a section of his brother’s jaw.  Viserion’s cry resounded deep in the night, and his claws met Rhaegal’s shoulder, tearing deep, and when they extracted blood spilled. Rhaegal thundered deafeningly, and it had alerted Drogon as he swooped in and grasped Viserion’s neck and dragged him upward away from Jon and Rhaegal.

 

Jon watched, mouth agape, Rhaegal finding difficulty in staying idle, but Jon urged him to hold on. The Night King reached to his side and the moment his hand gripped the hilt of his ice spear, Jon pressed himself nearly flush and mentally begged Rhaegal to fly faster, though he knew his shoulder was barely holding up, the Night King raising his arm and finally Rhaegal threw himself into Viersion’s chest, and Jon yelled over his shoulder for Dany to leave him.

 

Dany winced as the dragons tangled within each other, and she flew around to oversee the city. Her findings took her breath away; the city was far overrun, everyone indistinguishable in the cloak of darkness, flaming arakhs whizzing about until they burnt out. She drove Drogon to the outer walls, and the wights were still flooding in for miles. When she focused further out, the White Walkers mounted upon their ice spiders began closing in on the city, and she commanded Drogon to spit fire. When he did, the spiders exploded into a pool of water, but the White Walkers endured. 

 

When she looked over out at the bay, most of the fleet were nothing but a simmer of smoke and ash if they hadn’t already sunk to the bottom. By the looks of it, most of the Golden Company had been destroyed, many of its ships having not made land.

 

Rhaegal and Viserion battled relentlessly, inching closer to the Red Keep with each push and gauge into dragon hide, and Jon was beginning to worry that Rhaegal wouldn’t last much longer. As Viserion clamped onto Rhaegal’s neck, he distorted the edges of the plated armor and his lower jaw pressed into the fleshy underbelly of the neck. An abrupt jerk of Viserion caught Jon’s attention, a distance growing as Viserion reared, the black and gold chasms of his eyes swirled to white, and he was struggling to break from his mind control.

 

_ Bran _ , Jon thought. The Night King attempted to control the beast, but it was useless; Bran reigned full command.

 

Jon clenched his jaw tight, Rhaegal losing his strength rapidly, and Jon’s left hand fumbled at the tethers and buckles along his waist, his chest heaving. Before he could make another move, Viserion was being driven toward the center of the city.

 

\---

 

Cersei gaped as the two dragons grew closer and the city below sheathed in wights, dead civilians, dead armies of all parties involved, closer and closer they wreaked havoc upon the living. When she could hear their cries and scraping of bony hands trying to scale the Red Keep, a chill coursed through her veins and prickled her skin with gooseflesh. Her breathing labored through gritted teeth, her eyes growing wide and unhinged.

 

It was then that she turned to give Qyburn the signal they agreed upon, and before he could take two paces toward the door, Jaime threw him back and his hand grasped his pale neck, pinning him against the wall and digging his feet into the floor to use all of his strength to stifle his breath. Qyburn’s feet kicked, trying to find anything to give him support, but his fingers clawed desperately at Jaime’s hands and his pallor transitioned to a plum hue.

 

Groaning, Cersei picked up a vase and smashed it over the back of Jaime’s head. With a thud he fell to the floor, his hand cradling where warm blood trickled, his vision blurred but not mistaking the struggling footsteps of Qyburn leaving the room in a haphazard form, choking all along the way. Cersei went to follow, but he threw his arm out and caught her by her ankle, tripping her as her chin met the floor. A shriek escaped her, and he dragged her away from her escape, his head throbbing.

 

With a yell, Jaime pulled a writhing Cersei toward him and got onto his knees, her hands slashing and clawing at his flesh and cutting his face in her escape attempt. She cried hysterically, kicking when she could, and Jaime knew he was running out of time. She threw herself to her side and grasped a long shard from the broken vase, coming around and driving it quickly into his handless arm, Jaime hollering as he toppled onto the floor again.

 

In her fury she kicked him onto his back and aimed for the middle of his chest, but his armor was too thick and she hadn’t the required strength. Outraged that she had intended to puncture his heart and end him, he caught her wrist when she aimed for his neck, her hand slipping and the edge catching his skin. She nearly fell on top of him, and he nimbly trapped her around her waist with his legs in a stronghold, flipped her onto her back and disarmed her. Before she could make another move, he pressed his hand firmly against her neck, and her eyes enlarged and filled with wet as she struggled to make sense of what was happening, her air supply null.

 

He had loved her for so many years, unconditionally so and even when their secret spread as rumor along Westeros, he never ceased affection for her. Despite those who tried to thwart them or turn their noses up at them, they always found each other in times of comfort. They shared a beautiful life together for the time they were able, shared children they loved deeply even when it was a struggle for Jaime to play the role of an uncle rather than father. All of this before the war of the five kings would rear its ugly head and bring them to their demise on this night.

 

Jaime’s teeth gnashed together and when her body began to thrash below him, weak against his weight, he began to weep as the light in her eyes clouded and dampened further. Her hands shook as they seized his hand, only barely able to loosen his grip to inhale a scratching fragment of air. 

 

\---

 

While Dany observed the city, panic set in; the small folk were drowning in the accumulation of wights, curdling screams and begs and pleas for mercy and calling for loved ones but their voices subdued when they perished. She could hardly make out any of the living anymore, and her face warped into apprehension and realization all at once - when the men, women and children who had been convinced that Daenerys was a murdering conquerer were reaching their hands into the air as she passed on Drogon overhead, their shrill cries biting clearly even at her elevation to save them. Her, their perceived adversary; they were imploring  _ her _ to save them. A decision had to be made. The consequences of dragon fire were far too great and she could not bring herself to set the city alight. She remembered Jaime’s warning of planted wildfire, which was deterring much of her abilities as it were. It was clear that these people were suffering, even  _ begging  _ for a mercy as their flesh tore so easily beneath the dead army. They were pleading for her to relieve them, to stop the torment but they were far too gone to form the words, so instead they lunged their arms into the air as if wishing to catch fire. Dany began to sweat profusely. The streets were so congested now, the pavement no longer could be seen, and so many bodies were toppling over one another, whether by means of escape or by death.

 

Drogon perched on a parapet at the Gate of the Gods. To her right, men were creating a human shield of themselves to defend the entryway to their home where his family resided just inside, only to be devoured and when they fell, wights broke into the home and all Dany could hear were their inarticulate howls.

 

To her left, children were being shred to pieces savagely, and the choking sob that escaped Dany cramped her throat. She pressed her eyes together tightly, the tears falling freely down her cheeks as her mind raced. When the sound of an infant reached her ears, she broke from her trance and her eyes searched the grounds but she could neither see nor no longer hear the child. With a deep inhale, she lifted her chin to see Viserion and the Night King hovering idly in the sky, and her heart clenched at the sight of her child mounted by a vile creature. Her shaky breath passed between her lips and she pressed herself to Drogon, and he bound into the sky.

 

Melisandre was adamant the prophecy was meant for Jon, but she would no longer be witness to any further suffering if it meant risking her own life to end it.

 

\---

 

Before Jon could calculate his next course of action, he looked up to see Drogon approaching in the far distance, directly into the path of the Night King, but the vociferous blast of the Red Keep was met just as quickly as Rhaegal’s cry, of his body being thrown unforgivingly from Rhaegal’s back, nothing but endless gravity and air at his back and debris pelting him until he crashed into something hard and the wind was drawn from him. Instinctually, he rolled onto his side and threw his arms over his head as the rubble coated him, ricocheting off of his armor and indenting the plating unending. The emphatic noise of the city detonating near and far numbed his ears and a persistent ringing took over as he was buried thick beneath segmented stone and dust.

 

Just as Dany opened her mouth to give Drogon the command to shower a blaze onto the Night King, to relieve the people of their fates in the hands of rotted corpses, the Red Keep erupted and spewed massive plumes of green wildfire and the chain reaction cascaded all along each street, alley and squares alike. She watched with horror-ridden eyes as Jon and Rhaegal were thrown into the air until her view was impeded by the blast, the Night King and Viserion swallowed in no time at all, and Drogon strained to pull them away from the wreckage, but the city and the wildfire were far too vast. They became ensnared beside the brunt of a wildfire transplant and debris struck Dany’s face, momentarily losing her consciousness as the clout propelled them with substantial strength. Dany ducked her head into her chest, her fingers aching as she clung tightly to the ridges of Drogon’s spine, and though her eyes were pinched shut, she knew that Drogon was being thrown far and away from where they once were.

 

His shrieks and wails pained her as if she had been the one emitting the grievance, and as the city imploded around them, they came to a sudden landing and they bobbed roughly up and down until the next thing she knew her back met the frozen tundra and Drogon came to a less graceful halt ahead of her. Quivering uncontrollably, Dany slowly lifted herself, her face smeared with dust and blood. Her hand reflexively covered her abdomen, and she begged whatever gods existed to let her baby be safe and alive.

 

\---

 

It felt like an age had passed before it settled, though from underneath wherever it was Jon had landed, everything was muted. With each breath he inhaled swirling thick dust and remnants of stone, and his eyes were deemed useless for everything was black. With a grunt, he slowly pushed himself up as far as he could go, but each space was quickly caved in by more wreckage. The weight of it against him was almost suffocating, but he could faintly hear the voices of people trapped nearby and those that were filling into the streets in search of anyone left living. Even still, the unmistaken wails and choking sputters of dead men were upon them.

 

With another push, he shouted into the black void and with every fiber of strength was able to throw off the heaviest parts off of his back, giving him better leverage as he became vertical once more and clawed at the remains while they caved in at his feet. With each gesture he was enclosed between the stones, and he grimaced when he forced his leg up to find something solid to stand on, distending his bones and muscles with unnatural force in order to find the clean air again.

 

Finally, after multiple failures, his hand breached a wall of nothing, and he ignored the fact that blood was dripping into his eyes now and that everything hurt, swinging his arms in a wide berth until a hole above him had formed. Once more he ripped his legs up from the entrapment below, groaning at the erosion of his shin chafed along the sharp edge of something below, indicating that the plating had been lost at one point.

 

Once he was able to throw himself half out of the rubble, he sucked in a deep inhale of the brisk air, choking on the collection of dust that gathered at the end of his throat. When he spat, blood dripped from his mouth. As he looked around, smoke and green flames were in abundance, as were thousands of bodies above the ruins. For the dead, the detonation only allowed more of them to flood within its once-withstanding walls, and the battle commended. Frantic, he pulled himself out, then began the daunting task of recovering Lightbringer.

 

\---

 

Arya had only just broken through a mountain of brick and stone trapped around her, her eyes blinking away the debris as the rattling of her breath beat against her weathered lungs. With a hobble, she found her footing and was quickly ambushed by wights, though even in the darkness she could see that these had once been warm-blooded civilians, their skin still intact from lack of decay yet. With her dragonglass dagger she was able to cut through them with an ease, then found solace behind a lingering wall structure, allowing herself to collect herself before she would move on.

 

A foul gurgling noise caught her attention. “ _ Girl! _ ” It shouted, and immediately she knew. She bounded down the rocky pathway, stepping over dead bodies and killing wights as she went. When she turned the corner, it was only by the faint color of the red stones that she realized the Red Keep once stood here. When she looked up, a tower of fragmented walls encircled above her, but her attention was then drawn to just around the corner. The Hound was lying buried in the rubble up to his chest, and she fell to her knees and began to dig him out. His face was almost unrecognizable as it had been painted with such thick blood and grime.

 

From behind her sprouted a flurry of wights and she whipped around without hesitation, her dagger diving into necks, faces and guts and whichever got to her first. When it was clear, she returned to the Hound, but his one free hand put a firm hold around her arm and she frowned angrily at him.

 

“Don’t waste your strength, girl,” he spluttered, hacking up a clot of blood with a sickening gush. “Just kill me.”

 

Words abandoning her, she merely shook her head and ripped her arm from him and was able to free his upper body, but paused when she uncovered his bloodied, corroded flesh where his armor had been torn and melted away. Her mouth fell ajar and she looked at him then.

 

“I can’t...feel anything,” he crowed, his throat flooding again. “Just kill me; I’m not meant to live. You’ll get killed just sitting here.”

 

After so much death and destruction, killing without the need to think about it, his request was overbearing, but she knew he would die soon and he was already suffering. The pit of red all along his torso was blackened, and she was sure that his innards were staring back at her. Only a few feet away could she make out the reflective gold armor of his dead brother emerging above the rock. 

 

This time, he reached for her face, gesturing for her to move closer and she did as much.

“Do it, girl. It’ll be a mercy for me. Get out of here; go home,” his jaw trembled and she swallowed hard when her eyes began to sting. “ _ Please _ .”

 

An unintentional gasp escaped her lips and she unsheathed the flat blade of the dagger she had used earlier to carve a new face, and he relaxed his arm to his side, laying his head back to absorb the swirling debris above him.

 

“Sandor,” she croaked, and he turned his head to face her. “If it weren’t for you I might not have made it home at all. Thank you.” His mouth twitched with a great effort into what was meant to be a smile, but instead he expelled the most blood she had seen in him yet, and then he could only nod in return to her.

 

For a brief moment she closed her eyes, kneeled above him, and dove her dagger straight into his heart with a force that would ensure he would die before he could acknowledge any pain. There had only been a short grunt before the last bit of air breathed through his lips, and as the dead men closed in on her, she hastily wrapped her arms under his and dragged him into a pit of burning wildfire to avoid her friend becoming one of them.

When she wrapped around the structure, from the corner of her eye ahead she saw a familiar figure crawling out of the rocks toward nowhere in particular. Her clothes were tattered and barely hung onto her, the angry red burns that gouged deep down to bone. Arya’s blood bubbled with rage and she bound over the uneven ground, leaping forward and wretched Cersei’s head back with a fistful of her hair. The shock of it caused Cersei to shriek, and Arya contemplated how to handle this.

 

“Where is your brother?” Arya demanded, pulling her hair back further until an answer would come from her lips.

 

“Dead,” she gasped with a weak smile, her whole body quivering.

 

“Do you know who I am?”

 

“The wolf bitch-”

 

A resounding slap across her face sent her soaring into the stones below and Arya was quick to recover her again, forcing her onto her knees and stepped before her. Cersei looked barely alive or conscious, but Arya wasn’t finished quite yet. Rather, she withdrew Needle and slowly walked circles around Cersei, keeping a wary eye out for incoming ambushes, but thus far they were mostly alone.

 

“Ned Stark. Robb Stark. Catelyn Stark,” she began, her voice smooth and taunting as Cersei wobbled in her place, her eyes darting from side to side with each of Arya’s movements. But with each name, she drew the point of her blade along the exposed flesh of Cersei’s arms and back. “Syrio Forel. Septa Mordane. Yoren. Talisa Stark. Missandei.”

 

The lacerations weren’t deep, but they were enough that Cersei was nearing a cry to beg her to stop.

 

“People I loved, people I was fond of that died by your orders or by those loyal to the Lannisters. I could keep going; how many more thousands of allies to house Stark died under your reign? How many were executed and suffered when you didn’t send your armies north, as promised? How many innocents did you kill when you blew the Sept of Baelor and thereafter? Would you like me to count?” Arya stopped at her back, the point of Needle prodded in the middle of Cersei’s back. There was a whisper she missed. “What was that?”

 

“I would do it all again,” Cersei repeated, this time with a hiss and an intentional enunciation of each word.

 

Slowly, Arya circled around, keeping her chin high and gaping into Cersei’s demented gaze, the slightest of smirks resting on Cersei’s lips. “I want you to remember this moment well after you die. I want you to suffer in whatever comes after death. I want you to know that the pack survives. And I want you to know that the North remembers.”

 

As Arya rotated on her heel, for a fleeting moment Cersei began to exhale in relief of a reprieve, and then in a flash Arya’s arm cut across the air and the dagger split through the length of Cersei’s neck, and with a gurgle she fell backwards, thrashing, until she moved no longer. Arya’s face never altered, but rather she returned to the middle of the city as the battle commenced.

 

\---

_**DRAGONSTONE** _   
  
Sansa paced the chilled halls with heavy tension resting in her belly; she made frequent calls to the ravenry despite knowing they would not receive word from King’s Landing so soon. She spent her time in the company of friends in the great hall; Sam, Little Sam, Ghost, and the comings and goings of northern civilians. The hearth was never allowed to ebb as sleep had been scarce between the few of them. After a while Sansa forced herself to sit, but her nerves were frayed and wired all at once.

 

Bran had just returned to the present, a sharp inhale shaking Sansa and Sam from their observation of him. He had instructed them to try and wake him by a certain point of time if he wasn’t able to break out of it, but it looked as if he had barely rebounded himself.

 

“Bran?” Sansa asked quietly, leaning forward in her seat.

 

It was a minute still before Bran acknowledged them. Ghost lifted his head, Little Sam sitting beside him for warmth as he played with a handcrafted toy made of wood from one of the maids. “It wasn’t enough.”

 

Sansa and Sam stared hard into him, silently pressing for clarification. “What do you mean by that?” Sam inquired.

 

“I was able to command Viserion for much of the time, but it isn’t enough,” he explained plainly. “Cersei has set off the remaining wildfire. Many of our forces have been lost, and the dead continue to swarm the city. Even with the remaining northern alliances joining them, I don’t know how much longer they will survive.”

 

Sansa released a tense sigh, her eyes darting along the room as she sat back in her chair.

 

“I have to do it,” Bran announced.

 

Sam’s expression softened, but Sansa frowned and looked between the two, confused as to why there seemed to be an unsaid understanding between them that she was unaware of. “Do  _ what? _ ”

 

Her brother gazed at her emotionlessly. “I have to try and command the Night King.”

 

“That’s far too dangerous! I don’t know how it works, but how…?”

 

“I must, Sansa. He is far too clever and their numbers too great; they all will die before nightfall without intervention.”

 

Scoffing, Sansa shook her head. “And...if you’re successful, what happens when he dies?”

 

“I die,” he admitted matter-of-factly.

 

Eyes already welling with tears, Sansa looked to Sam as if he would support her, but he only offered her a look of sympathy. “No. You are the heir to Winterfell; the north needs you. Your family needs you! There has to be another way.”

 

“There isn’t. This is the way. And you will make a wonderful queen.”

 

She buried her face in her hands then, practicing regulating her breathing to prevent a sob from escaping her. How she loathed war; she always had. Most did, but some craved the thrill of it, whereas she wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

 

“Are you certain it will work?” Sam questioned.

 

“Fairly certain. It will take all that I have.”

 

Bringing her head up again, Sansa’s eyes were glossy and red now. “I don’t want to be queen. Not if this is how it has to happen.”

 

“You must,” Bran assured. “If I don’t do this, the dead win, and then we all die. Which end do you prefer?”

 

Frustrated that her lip quivered, Sansa knew nothing she said would change his mind; it was evident that this had been the plan all along, unbeknownst to all but Sam. Her voice was small when she spoke. “Would it be too selfish of me to ask for neither?”

 

The faintest of smirks tugged Bran’s lip then. “You deserve to be selfish. The north will be in capable hands. Give my best wishes to Jon and Daenerys.”

 

At that, Sansa was on her feet and squeezing her arms around her brother’s shoulders, her face buried in his furs. While they embraced, Sam left to hand off Little Sam to one of the many willing ladies to care for him. When he returned, Sansa straightened herself and Sam replaced where she had been, awkwardly bending over around the wheelchair to reach him.

 

“I never expected we would have become such good friends when we met all those years ago,” he said with an air of inappropriate excitement. “But it was a pleasure to do so.”

 

“And you, Sam. I trust you’ll keep a watchful eye over Jon once he accepts the crown. He’ll need your wisdom when he does,” Bran remarked lightly.

 

“Oh, I don’t think so, but I’m happy to help where I’m able,” Sam said modestly, his cheeks reddening.

 

Bran craned his head to acknowledge Sansa, and she folded her hands before her. “I love you, little brother. There’s nothing I could say or do in a lifetime to thank you properly. I’ll be sure to never let anyone forget it.”

 

“I’d expect nothing less from a Stark,” Bran stated. “I must go now. I might be gone for a bit; it won’t be an easy task. If I fail, the odds are abundantly against us. I need you both to understand that.”

 

In unison, Sam and Sansa nodded smally, then returned to their chairs.

 

“Farewell,” he said quietly, then with a tilt of his head back, his eyes rolled into a clouded white, and Sansa and Sam waited with apprehension on the edge of their seats. 

 

\---

 

Dawn was arriving and began to shed more light on the land. As Jon found had found himself where the fighting was developing at the thickest, the Night King was nowhere to be found until a thick plume of frigid winds and snow projected onto them, nearly blowing people off their feet from its force, and they quickly became shrouded to once more lose sight of anything in front of them. Jon withdrew Longclaw and took tentative steps in the precarious state of the mounds of debris under his feet, taking care not to put all of his weight on one foot over the other, and trying to pay no mind to how his body protested from being thrown from stories high onto cement ground.

 

Off in the distance, he squinted his eyes, thinking he was being foolish, but his eyes fixated on the amber gleam of Lightbringer. He picked up his pace, not unaware as to how now there was an unusual, tranquil silence that quieted all sound. The only thing he could hear was his own men shouting and hollering and dying, the vague shrill dragon cry, and his own breath. He wondered desperately where Dany was, if she was alive, where Rhaegal had gone off to and if  _ he _ was alive...

 

As he found somewhat more level ground, he darted into a sprint and kneeled down to collect Lightbringer once more, but the crunching of footsteps surrounding him crippled him in his place. Puffs of mist from his shallow breathing misted into the air, and he slowly turned in a circular motion: in the compact fog, convoluted, black silhouettes of slow-approaching dead men had surrounded him in every direction, their speed leisurely.

 

He dug his feet into the earth and turned every which way to know where to strike first, and their bodies came into view only when they were mere inches away from him. He spun on his feet in a wide circle and the manner in which Lightbringer decimated them was unlike anything he had ever seen before; the flame swallowed them whole as if they stepped directly into a hearth, and dissolved into ash thereafter.

 

He thrust this way and that, around his back and shoulders and returning to the front, finding it easiest to continue to swing his arm in a circular form to avoid any vulnerable areas. On his next swing he drove into two wights, and then from above or behind he was unsure, a group of them lurched forward onto his back to knock him forward onto his feet, their bony hands clawing perpetually at his skin and leathers and scraping a spine-tingling sound against his armor. His body was being butchered as he struggled to get away, but finally brought his arm around and was able to be rid of some of them only for the others to close in.

 

As they piled and fell over one another, his adrenaline kicked in and he rolled over onto his side and jumped to his feet, despite them clinging to him, he lifted Lightbringer high over his head and heaved it under his arm and backward and the sky became riddled with their ashes. His eyes scanned his surroundings as he was closed in, and for a beat he felt hopeless.

 

A familiar noise caught his attention and his head whipped around to seek the sky, trying to concentrate on his immediate surroundings simultaneously, and then a sea of orange and red illuminated a trail from beyond his field of vision to straight in front of him and beyond as he threw his arm up to shield the heat from his face.

 

Rhaegal’s distinctive wail, which Jon had become familiar with, echoed longingly into the boundless atmosphere. Jon took advantage of the situation and dissected wight after wight until a clearing formed around him. Back and forth Rhaegal weaved flames on the masses, and an incoming storm of men on horses trampled their way into the wights, swords swinging and creating a passageway of sorts for Jon to travel through.

 

He broke off into a sprint, struggling against his wounds as the wights who had been stomped onto the ground began to rise once more, but not long before dragon fire consumed them. The dragon pressed on and the northern alliances who followed did what they could in his aid, keeping the wights at bay. Jon pushed himself beyond, dodging and striking as Rhaegal burned a path in front of him, leading him to Dany.

 

There, as the fog dissipated as if controlled by the Night King himself, he revealed himself. Jon never tore his eyes from the blue ones that permeated the air between them except to observe that Drogon and Dany were grounded nearby. The Night King appeared almost unharmed by the explosion, and simultaneously as they stood off there was a thunderous collision as Viserion clashed with Rhaegal, blue flame intermingling with red and jaws snapping. The Night King reached over his shoulder to bring an ice cleaver around, his expression never shifting. Jon clenched both hands around Lightbringer, the heat from its flames seeming to intensify in his presence.

 

The Night King did not waste time; within a few paces he was throwing the full weight of his cleaver downward which would have split Jon’s body in half had he made contact. Jon ducked and threw himself to his side, and when he turned to strike, he came to see that the agility of the Night King was much more enduring than he had ever been able to witness. The dead king brandished a curved glacial dagger, the speed at which he moved catching Jon off guard as it sliced a thin line into his pauldron, and when Jon found him again, he wretched his arm into the air and decimated his cleaver. The Night King didn’t flinch, but rather threw his weight before Jon and his dagger burrowed itself into Jon’s side, puncturing his armor as if he had wore none at all, and he winced, his teeth clamping onto his lip, but he would not die.

 

At either side of him, what appeared to be an endless stream of White Walkers closed in, each of them bearing ice spears as they sealed the distance between them. Within seconds the Night King disappeared from view. Knowing he may not survive if he waited for them to reach him, he lunged off to his left side, spinning on his heel to gain more momentum as he heaved Lightbringer diagonally and was stunned when rather than shatter into millions of shards of ice as they once had before, the White Walker burst into flame, sending Jon back on his feet. The cry that it released was ear-splitting as if the sound of ice breaking had been magnified.

 

There were dozens of them; he was battle-beaten and could feel the strength leaving him, but he had to carry on. If he didn’t, everyone would die, and thus far Melisandre’s prophecy had proven true. When an ice spear whipped above his head, he ducked and thrust Lightbringer across the Walker’s legs, moving on to the next without so much as pause as they filed in hungrily. With each kill he could vaguely hear the deaths of wights far and away as those that sired them were executed. From every side they attacked now, and Jon had to be quick on his feet and prioritize one over the other, but he was becoming overwhelmed as several sets of arms were thrashing toward him. Some wielded spears, some curved or straight daggers, and the Night King who was safely secured behind his forces.

 

Something hard and frozen pummeled him in the back of the head then, a shout erupting from him as he half-blindly swung his blade well behind his back, making contact with a Walker and used the strength of both arms to firmly hold the longsword in front of him and he ran into the crowd, piercing one, two, three, four, five, six of them in his fury, but trapped himself in a deluge of an onslaught. As sweat soaked his inner layers, fighting through the pain and objection from his body, familiar voices could be heard across the way, hidden on the opposite side of the Walkers. He didn’t know exactly who, but was relieved to know help had arrived; after a moment, he recognized Ser Jorah, and then Theon came into view, and he could never disassociate Arya, though he wished he could reach her to scream for her to get out of the city.

 

Over time they thinned out the wall of White Walkers between them, and each of them seemed bewildered to finally come upon friendly faces, but they all looked at each other with an expression full of debilitating exhaustion and fear and crippling unease. In Jon’s brief moment of distraction, a frozen spear ripped into his sword-wielding arm, and for a time he dropped Lightbringer, and then a frozen hand swelled around his neck, the sensation burned fervently in both heat and ice, his feet lifted from the ground. As he was lifted, a dagger tore down the rear of his calf and he wondered why they didn’t just kill him then, but he was then falling to the ground in the moment he had motioned to unsheath Longclaw.

 

When the ice shards scattered around him, desperately choking for air, Arya was moving in fluid operation, her spear swiveling in dizzying correspondence to the White Walkers around them. Regaining his balance, he reclaimed Lightbringer and with the help of his friends, continued to fight for the dawn rising, but he was losing blood in too many different areas and his vision began to blur and it was starting to feel as if he were watching from the outside in. But Dany needed him.

 

\---

 

The sea of wights that rushed toward Dany and Drogon had her wondering if they had made any progress at all, but she hadn’t time to ponder as Drogon threw his body over her while hurling flame in wide circles around them. Even he could not resist the numbers as wights mounted onto him and covered his body like summer insects to heat, and he released a wail as their daggers cut into him unforgivingly, turning around and picking up his tempo as his hide quivered and shook violently to free himself of the wights, and with each movement Dany began to lose cover of his safety. Fear set in when she looked up from where she lay, Drogon flying out of sight and the bodies wights dropping from high above her onto the ground around her.

 

When they began to twitch and come alive again, she gathered herself onto her knees and her fingers fumbled for the sword Arya had made for her, but fear overwhelmed her when skeletal arms and the grotesque demeanor in which they hobbled across the land churned her stomach. 

 

\---

 

Jon’s teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, a mix of the weather and his wounds festering. 

He groaned as his head spun wildly, every bit of his body pulsing with pain as it shouted for him to halt, Jon gripped the hilt of Lightbringer with vigor, clamping his teeth together. 

 

His body objecting, Jon trudged through the debris, his hands flexing around the grip, eyes boring into the Night King’s face. In one sharp, swift movement the Night King’s ice dagger was flung with such a tenacity Jon barely had time to flinch as it buried into his side. He cried out and his legs wanted to collapse but his hand caught himself against the ground and he composed himself, the very meager task to breathe now a burden as each incline of his ribs paralyzed him. As the Night King watched him curiously, his face unchanged, Jon ripped the frozen weapon from his side with a wince, his body convulsing in reaction.

 

There had been a very slight cock of the Night King’s head, and he then slowly raised his hands at his sides to resummon the dead, and Jon broke into a faltering sprint, Lightbringer raised up to his side, knowing he would likely die in his charge. In an instant Arya came hurling from behind, dagger at the ready, but the Night King turned on his heel to catch her by her throat and pummeled her into the frozen foundation unflinching, and Jon felt a raw rage as his little sister looked nothing more than a rag doll.

 

He could hear her gasping for air as he heaved his entire weight into his blade, aiming into the Night King’s back only for it to be met with air and then rubble. When his eyes found Arya’s, her face contorted in pain, he hadn’t a second to react as the Night King brandished his ice cleaver and had Jon been distracted for a fraction of a second longer, his head would have met stone then.

 

Jon flattened himself against the ground and rolled to his side, pushing up and thrusting the flaming sword across but the Night King merely hopped backward to avoid contact. Arya launched her legs forward until she fell into a crouching position, her spear in her left hand as she eyed her opponent wildly.

 

Back and forth the same pattern repeated itself between he and Jon; his movements were too agile and brisk and Jon was losing himself, having to consciously make the effort to stay alert and reactive.

 

Arya circled around the Night King, making the odd lunge and jab when he was otherwise distracted by Jon, and vice versa. In his head Jon felt they had done this for hours, a constant revolving circuit. But as the Night King went to make his next strike, Arya thrust the point of her dragonglass spear into the ice cleaver and it shattered into a thousand remnants, and as if on cue the dead closed in from within the shrouds of fog, White Walkers intermingled, and Lightbringer whirled in wide circles all the while evading the ice spear that the Night King had come to behold. While Arya held off her end, Jon realized the Night King had set all of them onto Arya, and then Jon withdrew Longclaw in his left hand.

 

With a newfound energy they danced just the two of them, exchanging near-misses and skilled deftness while Jon compelled himself to stay aware of Arya’s whereabouts. Between every breath at the Night King he would swirl Longclaw behind him, eliminating some of the invasion until Arya was swallowed up by them.

 

Heat rising within him, Jon looked up to see Theon and his remaining Ironborn behind him. The Night King acknowledged him, though still acutely aware of Jon, and Theon looked at Jon, a determination gleaming in his eyes. The entirety of Jon’s body rose and fell with every breath and he watched as Theon’s attention returned the the Night King. Half-crouching, he pointed his dragon-glass tipped spear in his direction and with a command to his men, rushed forward, his spear splintering in the grasp of the Night King as he dug his ice dagger into the center of Theon’s chest. When he fell listlessly after a moment, the ice spear of the Night King flashed through the air and into the throats of all four of the Ironborn, so fast that Jon’s eyes barely followed the gesture.

 

There was no time for Jon to process Theon’s death as from above and distantly, Drogon flew into view interweaving in the clouds and back, and the Night King watched with a keen interest as the dragon fought off the wights that clung to his hide. Jon’s eyes followed his to Dany on the ground and vulnerable, his heart sinking. Bran had said that she wouldn’t come to any harm by the Night King’s hands, but “ _ he could make her his queen _ ”.

 

Nostrils flaring and lip snarling, Jon was swarmed by wights before he could take another step forward, and the Night King turned around to make his way to Dany. With every swing of his sword he grew that much closer to Dany, but was set back further, the cackling throats of the dead deafening around him now as they encircled him. On occasion he would catch a glimpse of Dany over the hoard, but now she rose and was retreating away from the Night King’s proximity.

 

A commotion to his left drew his attention away and Jorah squired a band of Dothraki upon their horses, their still-flaming arakhs thinning out the dead as Jorah pressed his mount hard in Dany’s direction. At last, Jon was relieved enough that he could break through, and when he reached the clearing, the legs of Jorah’s horse were gruesomely hacked and sent Jorah soaring over its head to land at Dany’s feet. Without faltering he swiftly recovered and created a shield before her. The Dothraki were falling helplessly into the hungry hands of the dead and Jon was helpless to stop it, for the Night King was advancing on Jorah and Dany. Jon compelled his legs to run as nimbly as they could, Lightbringer in hand as the Night King raised his hand and flexed his fingers, commanding the wights to turn their focus onto Jorah and Jon.

 

Jorah fought bravely, Dany keeping herself close behind him and wielding her own blade, and though it was a lighter steel, it felt excruciatingly heavy in her grasp now. Her eyes absorbed their surroundings, feeling small and fragile on the ground without Drogon who was still absent. With a few pace advantage, Jon leapt toward the Night King’s back, but instead he sidestepped him and his ice blade caught the rear of Jon’s shoulder from the back, causing him to fall forward into the ground face-first. Grunting, his swinging arm had taken so much damage that it was almost inoperative.

 

Jorah gestured for Dany to stay behind him and he slowly battled his way toward Jon, the Night King standing above him and Jon rolling to avoid his next assault. Dany’s breath hitched when she saw that Jon and the Night King were mere inches from one another, neither of them giving in to the other, Jon’s sword that close to ending it all.

 

And then Jorah was struck, once, twice, three times until his knees began to buckle, and Dany threw her blade instinctively at the thing that hauled itself at her, surprised to find that she struck. But her blade wasn’t Valyrian steel, and the most she could do was bide their time by seconds. Jorah’s arm reached behind him as his breathing labored, and he was quickly becoming overwhelmed, clawed and sliced and punctured horrifically. Not long passed before he was succumbing to his injuries.

 

Jon’s heart was near busting through his chest at the sight of her becoming inundated by an aggregation of wights. And from what seemed to be out of nowhere Drogon descended and a wrathful, blinding, scorching blaze erupted from his throat and impregnated the earth as it blasted the land into fragments.

 

With a lunge Jon ran out of the line of fire, the flame enveloped the dead men, the Night King and Dany within it, and as quickly as Jon felt relieved, his heart stopped, throat constricting, his body numb. Almost as quickly as she was drowned in flame there Dany appeared, her armor flaring and singed as the fire was smothered by the gale, though her leathers had burned away. Her arm came down from shielding her eyes and his disbelieving eyes studied her long and hard as if his imaginings were fooling him in that she was only just devoured in fire.

 

_ The Unburnt _ .

 

They turned to see that the fire had deflected off the Night King, but now he motioned forward to Dany. Without hesitation she scaled Drogon’s shoulder until she found her seat, and then Rhaegal, heavily wounded, shook the ground beneath Jon’s feet as he came to stand over him.  Dany made a motion to either attack or leave, but when Jon threw himself in front of the Night King’s ice spear, her scream was muted in her throat and never came, his body acting as a shield between them as it grazed just beside his neck. 

 

Jon’s voice grew hoarse from yelling with each heave and twist of Lightbringer, his fatigue setting in and he was forced onto his knees as once more, the frozen dagger pierced the flesh of his upper chest, and Rhaegal trilled a deafening sound into the air, setting the incoming wights ablaze in a blinding fury. Drogon reared on his hind legs to gesture for his mother to give him the signal, but she forced his stay, looking around desperately when Jon was probed again and again, and then she slid down the side of Drogon’s leathern hide as it appeared the Night King was making a game of it. Perhaps it was a lure, but she refused to watch Jon die.

 

As Dany opened her mouth to tell him help was arriving, the sounds of human voices racing from behind her somewhere, sound was muted in Jon’s ears and his vision doubled. Then, when he looked up, the Night King wrapped his frozen hands around Jon’s throat, squeezing with a monstrous strength, his other hand brought back to give the final blow. Lightbringer trembled in his hand and the flame was withering as quickly as Jon, but then the Night King’s hold loosened and when Jon choked for air, he found the Night King’s icy blue eyes were a solid white.

 

Gasping, Jon groaned as he forced himself up, the flame of Lightbringer intensifying, and he stared hard into the face of the Night King as his spear fell to the ground and his arms were still at his sides, his palms facing outward. Jon’s brow twitched into a frown; how could it be? How could Bran have enough will to warg the Night King? He remembered a conversation he once had with his little brother, how dangerous warging was, what had happened with Hodor and the consequences of the loops of time left open and unending. He had once said that if he were to warg into a creature and that creature was killed, he died along with it. Subconsciously Jon shook the thought from his head.

 

“ _ Jon!”  _ Dany urged, and he hadn’t realized he had fallen to his knees as the Night King stood exposed to him. Her call rattled him out of his gaze, and once more he returned to his feet, his knees convulsing violently. Raising Lightbinger above his head, he pressed his eyes shut. 

 

“Forgive me, Bran,” he muttered, his voice a stranger in its wake, wights closing in on their surroundings until with a bellow, he drove the length of Lightbringer into the chest of the Night King.

 

The flame that erupted was so turbulent that Jon lost his grip on his blade and he crouched low to the ground, the reverberating sound of the ice-splitting screams of the remnants of the army of the dead resounding throughout the capitol. Jon collapsed onto his back, his cough producing a thick, hot blood that pooled into his mouth, and he winced as he rolled over to let it trickle out. As he lay there, time seemed to slow, and where the Night King once stood was merely empty space as if it all had been a nightmare he was trapped in.

 

\---

 

_**DRAGONSTONE** _

 

Bran’s body thrashed vigorously, Sansa placing a ginger hand on his knee despite knowing nothing she did would aid him now. His face contorted into an emotionless struggle, his fingertips white from grasping his chair so roughly. Hot tears spilled from her eyes, and Sam watched mournfully.

 

It felt like many moons had passed before the subdued flailing ceased and he became still as ice. Haltingly, Sansa stood from her seat and hovered over Bran’s face where the  frosted whites of his eyes dulled to reveal his human brown ones, staring spiritless into the depths of the ceiling high above them. His lips were slightly parted and Sansa lowered her ear to them, and when no air reached it, her eyes compressed together and she collapsed onto the floor in lament. Sam moved around and though he wasn’t often one to console people successfully, he wordlessly brought her into his arms and allowed her to grieve for as long as she needed, fighting away the whimper collecting in his chest. 

 

Northern small folk gradually appeared in droves in response to the outcry, prompting them to join in the mourning once they came to an understanding of what had unfolded.

 

\--- 

 

Eyes blinking slowly, Jon was only vaguely aware of the clamor around him, unfocused figures appearing out of the clearing mist as his consciousness left him. Every bone, every nerve, every muscle in his body tormented him so much that the pain was numbing and he couldn’t concentrate on one particular injury.

 

At last, his eyes fluttered closed, and he was only aware ambiguously that he was lifted from the ground, Dany’s trembling cries the last memory he held onto until he allowed the dark to conquer him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you found this as epic and satisfying as it was to write it. It was a battle to make this one happen!! And wow, I can't believe I made it this far in the story - the battle at King's Landing was one of the key moments that inspired me to write this story (aside from my Jonerys love, of course). I so badly wanted to see Jon ride in on a dragon, damn it!
> 
> Still much more to come; thank you for waiting a bit longer this time around! <3


	19. Part XIX - In The Wake of Dawn

A hollow silence fell upon King’s Landing, sharp against the incessant wails that persisted to linger in Tyrion’s ears. After he and Arya went their separate ways, he had meant to seek shelter, for he was incompetent when battle was near. But as he scoured the alleyways, and after he watched their allies being slaughtered mercilessly, he redirected himself to helping trapped civilians out of their homes.

 

He only had been minorly successful - it was almost impossible to navigate the streets without risking a wight populating it, and some of those he had safely rescued were butchered only down the road. He still remembered the infant child and his mother whom Tyrion had stayed with for a time, allowing the threat to pass by her window. They sat quietly in the shadows while the mother tried earnestly to hush the baby’s weeping, and Tyrion was forced to act fast before it would draw unwanted attention.

 

They had found a rear exit through one of the top windows, where Tyrion had leapt first, patrolled the alleyway first, and when it was clear the mother followed with the baby wrapped tightly in her arms. He led her down the path in a brisk pace, but her son’s wails only heightened when the cold bit his fragile skin. She had stopped to bundle him up in her tattered cloak, exposing her own arms to the frigid winds, and Tyrion hadn’t noticed he had been far ahead of her as he examined the safety of a crossway. When he had turned around to go back for her, he had to force himself to leap behind a wall covering when the wights closed in on her and the child, and he never forgot the resounding wail of the both of them dying.

 

Guilt burdened him with his hands pressed firmly over his ears to drown out the noise, but it never left him. From there he looked up when it ceased and found Drogon mounted on the city ramparts from afar, and how he wished his voice could reach Dany in that moment, but she flew off out of sight, and soon after the city combusted in wildfire.

 

For much of the battle he was entombed in a substantial amount of rubble, and it took nearly the rest of the time just to break free. Part of him, the cowardice in him as he reminded himself, was almost happy to be trapped in there, alive but hidden from the outside dangers. And that way, he could not lead more innocents to their deaths.

 

As he slowly, conscientiously made headway through the streets, it was a sight to behold. King’s Landing no longer resembled what it once did; no longer a great city, all of its physical history erased, and all because of his own sister. The body count was endless, and those who were still able-bodied were beginning to search for those still trapped in the debris and those above it that needed immediate attention.

 

Tyrion walked in a daze, his eyes the only sense that was able to absorb everything around him, but it felt as if his brain had shut down whilst trying to digest all that had unfurled. And the dead were  _ dead _ . Smoke simmered into the calming air, green fire still flaring in various stages throughout the grounds. He was unsure that he wished to go further, knowing that he would soon come to know the fate of the rest of them. One thing he did know in his trudge was that it was very apparent they had barely made it alive. Their own alliances were heavily thinned, and civilians no longer populated the homes of the capital. 

 

He stopped at what once resembled the Red Keep, his heart palpitating now, craning his head around and going around a corner. In plain view laid his sister, strewn atop the stoned, much of her gown burned away from the wildfire. Long, shallow lacerations adorned her exposed skin, and even from here her frozen expression looked pained. His upper lip twitched in a small snarl, and the sight of her was repulsive to him; not because she was dead, but because he knew what he would find next.

 

He didn’t stop digging through the rubble until he came across Jaime. Unmasking a portion of his face, his chin trembled and tears pooled in his eyes as he pushed the stones aside to reveal his brother in full, and he looked as if he could be sleeping. Tyrion’s breaths stuttered and collected in his chest so tightly that his sob was certain to be heard by all, hanging his head and flattening his hand on Jaime’s stiff, cold exposed chest. It was useless to feel for a heartbeat, he knew, but he couldn’t accept his death even after nothing could be felt beneath his skin. Breaking down, his other hand pinched the bridge of his nose, each glimpse of Jaime below  jerking the wind out of him. Eventually, he looked down and rolled up the sleeve of Jaime’s tunic, dislodging the golden hand from him and holding it close while he silently made his final goodbyes. 

 

When Tyrion found it in him to leave his brother’s body, and started again down the street, it took a long beat for him to acknowledge that Grey Worm had dropped to his knees before him and roughly gathered him into his beaten arms, the gesture tearing Tyrion from his thoughts; a gesture that was far uncharacteristic of the man. When he pulled away, his face had been heavily blemished, which told Tyrion that at one point he had lost his helm. Grey Worm’s persistent frown had softened now, and he was glad that he didn’t force words as he led him down the streets to where most had gathered.

 

They came upon a clearing and Grey Worm returned to the remnants of the Unsullied, and Tyrion could only make out enough of their words to know that they were to observe if any of their ships had survived the war. His eyes narrowed when he noticed a familiar mop of hair on a body nearby, and when he approached, he looked down upon Theon’s face, his hand lying listlessly over his abdomen, the Greyjoy sigil frayed in its puncture. Tyrion hesitantly lowered his ear to Theon’s lips, waited, and waited a moment longer, and a light breath of air feathered Tyrion’s ear. His eyes widening, his fingers lifted the layers of his armor until he confirmed his suspicions; chainmail.

 

Turning on his heel, he yelled words that sounded incoherent to him for someone to help, and within seconds Theon was being carried off to wherever they were taking survivors. He idly wondered where that was and whom he would find there. He continued to wander aimlessly, his mind clouded and unsure of where his destination lay. 

 

“Tyrion.”

 

When he turned, he found Arya approaching from behind, looking just as petrified as he assumed he did. An unusual sight for the bravery this girl carried. Her gait was uneven, and even through the black hide of her boots he could see blood soaked through it. Her eyes traveled down to acknowledge the golden hand in his grasp, and she could only offer him her apologies, though right now they were empty words in his grief.

 

“If the Lannister name wasn’t hated enough before...I’m afraid for the legacy I get to die with,” he muttered.

 

They walked together toward Blackwater Bay, the general direction the others were taking. “Everyone knew what your sister was. She never changed. She doesn’t define your family.”

 

Tyrion made a gesture with his head to suggest otherwise. “You know the cruel ways of this world as well as I by now. It wouldn’t matter if Cersei was a fourth cousin twice removed; a reputation such as hers won’t be forgotten for generations.”

 

“I don’t know about that,” she insisted. “People have already grown warm to Daenerys, and it wasn’t that long ago that her father intended to carry out the same crime. But it’ll be up to you to restore that faith.”

 

A hint of a smile pulled his lips. “Arya Stark. Your father would be proud if he came to know the woman his daughter grew up to be.”

 

Arya almost scowled, but thought better of it. Compliments often made her uncomfortable. “I’m not sure if he would be proud or frightened.”

 

“Hopefully a bit of both. A father’s fear only means his child has liberated oneself and he can no longer govern them. Are you alright?” He inquired, her limp distracting.

 

“I will be. I’m afraid I may lose my foot if I don’t find a maester soon enough,” she said.

 

Finally, they arrived at the port where some Targaryen ships were being sailed in. He looked around, but the only remaining faces he recognized belonged to Dany’s army. Northern sigils were boasted here and there, and the crowd grew thicker at the shore as more joined them. As they filed in, small folk were brought over, most reeling from the unfurling of the war. In the distance, structures continued to crumble from the destruction. At the head of the fleet, Dany’s flagship was anchored and surrounded by that of the Fiery Hand, and Tyrion grew curious, but didn’t wish to interrupt. He was afraid to know the outcome of anyone he was fond of, so he made his excuses with Arya to aid those in the rescue efforts.

 

\---

After she saw to it that Jon was tended to immediately, Dany excused Drogon to go hunt and for Rhaegal to find somewhere to rest; she would need to care for his wounds once his residual rage dampened.

 

Her hair slightly disheveled and her face knicked and dirty, she began to walk the streets of the city. It wasn’t long before she came upon civilians, though they cowered in her presence when she initially approached. She stopped and gently put a hand out. “It’s alright. We’re safe now.”

 

“Where is papa?” The little girl asked her mother, her small arms wrapped securely around the mother’s legs. Dany swallowed, looking between them.

 

The mother removed her attention from Dany to the little girl and crouched down to her level, her hands thumbing the pudgy cheeks. She could not have been older than six. “He...well, he had to go away for a long time, dear. He protected us from the bad men and he had to go rest.”

 

After the little girl smiled and accepted her mother’s answer, her green eyes sought Dany and she smiled shyly, her hand gripping her mother’s dirty skirts. “That’s the dragon queen, mama! Just like in the stories he would share with me before bed.”

 

Dany found it near impossible to stifle her bewilderment, her lips twitching and pressing into a wide smile as she crouched down to her level. “May I ask what sort of tales your father spoke of?”

 

The girl blushed a vibrant red and grinned so wide her eyes disappeared for a moment, and only moved closer to Dany when her mother nodded her approval. Her small hands collected in front of her with her chin held high, and Dany realized she was trying to mimick a queenly stance. “That you had three dragons and the largest army anyone has ever seen, and that you would come to save us all from the cold men, and from Queen Cersei. He said that you lib...lib…”

 

“Liberated, dear,” the mother pushed gently.

 

“ _ Liberated _ your friends who had to do bad things for bad people.”

 

The woman got to her feet and bowed awkwardly in Dany’s presence, clearly not a common gesture she was used to giving, but Dany smiled at her kindness. “Your Grace...please excuse my ignorance; we aren’t as familiar to the customs and I hope my daughter hasn’t spoken out of term.”

 

“Oh, no, of course not!” Dany assured, her heart fluttering. “You are not from here, then?”

 

“No, Your Grace. The Riverlands. Our maester told us to go south before winter fell thickest at home; we were to take shelter at Cider Hall where some of our friends are, but we weren’t fast enough and had to stop here instead.”

 

Nodding, Dany rose and her eyes scanned the damage and the collection of small folk who had gathered unbeknownst to her, then turned back to the mother and daughter. “If you’re in need of food or shelter, you’re more than welcome to join us at Dragonstone to convalesce. It will be quite some time before we can restore the capital, and we can send you on your way with our ships when you’re ready.”

 

“Oh, we thank you, Your Grace, truly,” the mother said. “But we best return home, else they’ll worry we never made it out alive.”

 

“Of course,” Dany said. With that, she went to the next civilian who was quick to take up her hands and kiss them; Dany was taken aback, but the man was old and wrinkled and his eyes glossy, and she was far too exhausted and delighted at their acceptance of her to mind their manners now.

 

After she spent a fair amount of time with the small folk, all of whom had rejoiced in their mortality despite their losses, she had one more thing she required before seeing to Jon. It was in a cramped quarter upon a mountain of rubble that Dany found him; crumbled, withered, and undoubtedly dead, Viserion’s decrepit body lay limply before her. Tears had already glazed her cheeks as she minded her footing, catching herself when he foot would slip. With nobody around her, her lungs grasped for air as the sobs came freely, and she looked down upon his half-closed, blackened eyes with a heavy grief. Chin trembling, she reached her hand out and ran it along the cold ridges of his face, down along beneath his eye and the length of his snout. She knelt beside him, reminiscing when he had only been a hatchling, how he clung to her leg and nipped her skin.

 

Her eyes followed down his neck to his parted mouth. After a moment, she reached down and with little effort, extracted a long fang, yet somehow it didn’t comfort her but only solidified his death for her. With the tooth held at her breast and her arm over the side of his face, she rested her forehead against him and lamented her final goodbye.

 

\---

 

“We’ll need to sail for Dragonstone if he’s to survive.”

 

Jon’s eyes trembled open and when his consciousness returned, his body involuntarily quaked so violently that strange hands around him had to hold him down. His armor and leathers had since been removed, keeping him modest with a sheepskin cover up to his waist, and his teeth grit hard as the pain erupted from head to toe.

 

“Keep still, Your Grace. Stay with us. We’re going to get you to a maester.”

 

The voice didn’t resonate with him, and his body broke out into a cold sweat, the bitter taste of blood leftover in his mouth. Someone ordered to fetch some water of which there was little of, but enough that he could rinse the coating away. His heart battered irregularly within the cage of his chest, stirring an ache in his head to accompany everything else.

 

His face construed into agony, and though his vision was diminished, two men tended to him near his head while two others continued to hold his body in place.

 

“There’s a broken dagger fractured in your shoulder, Your Grace. We need to get it out now.”

 

A rolled cloth was placed between his teeth for him to clamp onto before he could acknowledge what was happening, and he didn’t care what needed to be done so long as the torment ended, every part of him screaming from the inside. The one beside his shoulder leaned close, and even the smallest shift of his instrument in the festering wound elicited a muted yell from him, his teeth clamping so hard into the fabric he was certain his teeth would shatter next.

 

His body writhed when the man dug deeper, and the others had to lay near their full weight onto him, forcing his knees back down as the instrument grasped the shard, and it was slowly being extracted but not as a long, blaring groan erupted from him then, sweat dripping down the sides of his face and he pinched his eyes shut.

 

“Almost…”

 

At last, the fragment was removed and Jon panted heavily as the cloth was taken out of his mouth.

 

“Your Grace, you shouldn’t be here-”

 

Jon opened his eyes then, searching for whomever was wanting him dismissed, only to find they were addressing Dany in the doorway. His heavy eyes blinked her image into focus, seeing that the knicks and scrapes of her face had recently been treated. Dust and dirt streaked her cheeks and hair, and her armor and burnt leathers had since been replaced by a long, dark coat.

 

Her breath trapped in her throat and when the man nearly ordered her removal, a stern look by her silenced him. Her face softened into grief, and he wished he could smile at her to assure her everything would be fine, but how he felt then would make him a liar. His muscles contracted so deeply from tension that they defined deep swells in his abdomen and arms, and she waited while the men continued to do what they could in the absence of a healer. Dany didn’t recognize their guests, but their appearance gave her the feeling of northmen, and she was grateful for them anyway.

 

A long time passed before they made their exit, the ship bobbing in a soft sway at sea. She moved to sit at the edge of his bed and was immediately taken back to the time he had returned from Eastwatch, and the exact moment this mirrored. Slowly, her eyes absorbed how torn and beaten his body was, having been moved onto his side where his only good shoulder lay.

 

He relaxed slightly more in her presence, a happy distraction. A silence fell between them, still overwhelmed and traumatized by the events, a mutual unsaid understanding. She collected one of his hands in hers and it was unnaturally cold. An inward gasp breathed through her nose, though she should have been used to the chill by now.

 

“I killed Bran,” his voice croaked, barely audible.

 

A slow frown creased her brows and she searched his face. It was an effort for him to clear his throat, and all at once she understood his meaning. Then her face relaxed, her thumb idly tracing over his hand. “You did not kill Bran. Bran saved us. We wouldn’t be here without him.”

 

There was a scarce shake of his head and he froze, closed his eyes and wetness fell from the corners. Dany’s heart shattered and she laid herself beside him, careful not to aggravate any wounds, cradling the side of his face in her hand while she smeared away the tears. His body convulsed with his choked sobs, and Dany had to bite her tongue not to join him. Reaching down by his legs, she pulled up the second layer of furs over them, conscious not to drag it, curling up beside him and burrowing his face into her neck while protecting his privacy to grieve away from all others who may walk in at any moment.

 

They laid like this for a time, and as they did Dany contemplated what was yet to come. She wondered how many they lost, including civilians; she had ordered for those willing to be taken to Dragonstone for mending. Their homes were destroyed and many of them needed caring for, and Maester Henly would undoubtedly be working day and night to assist with them. The Fiery Hand had healers in their armada, and they came away with many of their priests and priestesses intact. They would need to see that King’s Landing was repaired, but they still owed a debt to the Golden Company, and the north was likely still reconstructing Winterfell.

 

And then eventually would come their coronation, and a thought occurred to her then. The thought of the throne hadn’t crossed her mind until presently, as she had become worried with Jon’s wellbeing and that of everyone’s state. She looked down at the man who had robbed her heart so fiercely that the one thing she once thought about day and night was receded into the rear of her thoughts. It had been within her grasp, and somehow it now felt a world away, but she was at peace with it. She was pleased to find Jon fell into a slightly restless sleep, wishing she could wash away all of his sadness and relish in their survival, but she knew he needed to grieve. And she did as well, and they all would until they came to accept the tribulations of the war.

 

\---

 

“Ships! They’ve returned!”

 

Sansa jumped from her chair, having just read over a letter from Winterfell, and it fell from her hands onto the table as she nearly sprinted into the halls. Her mouth agape, a congregation was forming to crowd outside to welcome their loved ones arrivals. She barely noticed that she was shoving through the crowd, and she flinched and ducked when Drogon and Rhaegal trilled low above their heads, Rhaegal flying with a wobble and finding it difficult to sustain himself.

 

Heart dropping to her stomach, she descended the hill, hardly caring that she slid gracelessly in the frosty turf, and finally she reached the beach. At one point Sam was beside her, but her focus was on the incoming fleet. It was modest now, heavily thinned and only six Golden Company ships remained in their armada. The Targaryen flagship was first to make land, followed by the rest.

 

Lords of the northern alliances dropped wooden plank ladders on the ships flanking the flagship and began pouring out of the decks. Many she hadn’t recognized as having lodged at Dragonstone previously, and her heart soared in knowing that their allies had joined the war after all. Tyrion emerged; with each familiar face she felt a little part of her relax. His head was cast down, the golden hand of Jaime in his grasp, and nausea set into Sansa’s stomach.

 

In her daze she hadn’t noticed Arya hobbling to her right, and Sansa was quick to give her a lookover before she ran to her and they threw their arms around each other as if it were completely natural to do so. Sansa released a longheld exhale, her tense muscles aching from their rigidity. She pushed Arya away by her shoulders to examine her; she looked broken. When they parted, they turned and the beach was quickly filling with the exhausted faces of their forces, all intermingled with strangers from King’s Landing.

 

Sansa turned around to find a maid, and asked for her to gather some of the others and begin drawing baths and preparing rooms for their guests. She wasn’t the authoritative figure, she knew, but it was what Daenerys would want, and she would be far too exhausted to want to run a castle just yet. The maid nodded and gathered a group of girls to see to the task.

 

Finally, Dany’s silver hair exited the cabin just as Tyrion found drier land, but he separated himself from the rest of them. With the assistance of Grey Worm, Dany made headway down the plank, and then he and a few other men boarded the ship once more. Frowning, Sansa, Arya and Sam watched with great trepidation until a makeshift cot with Jon on it was being brought down. Sansa swore her heart stopped then, and her legs began walking forward almost unbeknownst to her, Arya beside her.

 

When they passed, Jon was unconscious, bundled in blankets and head lolling slightly with each movement. They watched until he was out of sight up the hill, and a hand tugging Sansa’s shoulder pulled her out of it. Dany stood before her, her eyes swollen and tired and they exchanged a hug, something about the gesture warming her. She moved to Arya next, then with a friendly nod to Sam, made her silent excuses to follow behind Jon.

 

Further off to the side, a group of priests and priestesses encircled another cot, this one adorned with Theon. A trembling gasp escaped her then and she ran to him, his palor nonexistent and the tunic he was left in punctured. She reached her hand out to touch his, but flinched away at how cold it felt.

 

“Is he…?” She began, unable to even dare speak the word.

 

One of the priestesses stopped before her. “We performed a healing spell on him when we departed King’s Landing. His body is trying to come back to us, but it will be some time yet…”

 

It wasn’t life, but she accepted that it wasn’t death, and she watched while they took him along with the others. Tormund and the rest were soon to follow, and she took up the rear with her sister back to the castle, but stopped when Tyrion didn’t budge.

 

“You go on, I’ll be right there,” she said to Arya, lifting her skirts from the wet sand and approaching Tyrion. It took him a moment to acknowledge her presence.

 

“I should feel happy,” his voice cracked. “We won the war. Yet I can’t help but feel anything but that.”

 

Sansa stood quietly for a beat, her eyes studying the sea beyond as the mist had finally cleared. “I should think you insane to feel happy after war. I didn’t see one smiling face come off those ships.”

 

“It was terrible,” he said flatly, idly shaking his head. “I’ve not seen anything quite like it and I never will again, thank the gods.”

 

“And Cersei?”

 

“Gone.”

 

“Good. I regret to have missed it.”

 

Tyrion craned his head to look at her, but with a smirk mimicking hers, and they walked in silence into the castle.

 

\---

 

When Jon next opened his eyes, he blinked into focus the harsh light of day spilling into his room, the comforts of the furs around him, and his Dragonstone chambers. His body jerked him awake, almost as if it had become aware of his conscious state, his wounds inundating all other thought. He groaned and he could feel his pores expelling cold sweat, and when he went to sit up a hand was placed on his chest. He hadn’t noticed that Maester Henly had been at his side, his hair disheveled and the rims of his eyes pink, and Jon wondered if he had slept since whenever it was they arrived.

 

“Your Grace,” he addressed softly, mixing together some sort of concoction in his hands and handing it to Jon. “This will numb the pain.”

 

Jon hardly paused and downed the drink in a couple hefty gulps, and it left a foul coating in his mouth afterward. “How long have we been here?” His voice was gruff from lack of us, and his hearth burned wildly.

 

“About two days. I’ve seen to your wounds, and they should start healing though it may not feel like it,” he said. “From what I hear you’re lucky to be alive, Your Grace.”

 

Jon swallowed slowly and his eyes fell to out of his window. It was still overcast, but far less grey than it had been. “Not everyone was as lucky as me,” he grumbled.

 

The maester gathered his belongings and stood from his seat. “No. But far more are lucky to have been spared and their lives are richer for it. You and the queen and all who chose to fight for you...you’ve already fulfilled the betterment of this world, and you’ve only just begun. One day you will grow old like me and you will come to see that.”

 

Silently he padded himself out of Jon’s bed chambers, forcing him to think on his words. The door had been parted open, and a dip in his bed drew his attention over to Ghost, who sniffed him over before nuzzling his head into his face. Jon couldn’t resist a smile, bringing his good arm around the wolf’s neck as he lay at his side. His fingers idly combed in his thick fur, his brain unable to come to terms with everything just yet.

 

After some time, a soft knock sounded off his door, and he beckoned them to come in, though his voice barely made it across the room. Dany stepped in, and his heart palpitated; she looked radiant yet exhausted. A small, hopeful expression filled her eyes as she walked over to him, and without pause and against his body’s protest, he brought his hand behind her neck and forced her down to kiss him hard. He softened it right away, his eyes squeezed shut. When they broke apart, his eyes searched her, a slight purple hue gathered beneath her eyes. She sat at his side.

 

“You’ve not slept?” He inquired, though it came out as more of a statement.

 

She shook her head. “I needed to see that everyone was comfortable. We have many displaced children here now.”

 

After a pause he nodded his understanding, and her eyes looked over his bare skin to where all of the punctures had been sewn closed and the superficial ones boasted some sort of healing paste the maester put together.

 

He collected her hand in his. “I’m sorry about Ser Jorah. And Viserion.”

 

Her eyes fluttered as if resisting the need to cry, nodding only briefly. “Can I get you anything?”

 

Eyes narrowing slightly, he studied her a second and it occurred to him that she hadn’t grieved, either. “You should rest.”

 

A bit abruptly she rose to her feet, pausing as if she didn’t know what to do next. “I think I’ll go check on Theon. They’re still waiting for him to wake.”

 

“Dany,” he called, but she was gone. He sighed and looked over to Ghost, who was unphased by it all in his slumber.

 

\---

 

When Dany retreated to the halls, withholding the threat of tears, she looked up to find Tyrion in out in the great hall sitting beside the unlit hearth. He had been cooped up in his chambers since they arrived, hardly speaking a word to anyone. She had sent maids to check on him, but denied them time and time again, and her imaginings started to play a trick on her in wondering if perhaps he was angry with her for some reason.

 

Now seemed her opportune moment, so she made her way over to him, grateful that most of the hall had been free of people. “Lord Tyrion…”

 

His head turned and he gave a half smile, pausing before gesturing to the seat before him where she perched. “I’m glad to see you well,” he assured.

 

“And you,” she said with a little more enthusiasm, but watched him calculatingly. His frail appearance worried her, and he would take no food when sent to his room. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Tyrion’s fingers grazed subconsciously along the ridges of the wooden chair. “Not really. It’s...almost impossible to put into words.”

 

She nodded, feeling herself relax. “I know.”

 

Looking at her then, his brows arched. “And the baby?”

 

A smile graced her face, but it felt foreign in the wake of everything. “Will be alright. Maester Henly was kind to see me soon after we arrived.”

 

“Well,” he breathed. “At least that’s some good news.”

 

As much as she wanted to comfort him that there was  _ much _ to look forward to, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words, as the gloom she felt inside would carry into her words as something dishonest.

 

“I am happy that you’re alive, Lord Tyrion. I want you to know that. Maybe you don’t feel that way...but I don’t think I could handle another loss,” she whispered, and he smiled a little more sincerely now, nodding his thanks. “If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.”

 

When she began to walk away, he called out to her and she turned her head over her shoulder. “Your Grace. You need to mourn, too, you know.”

 

Again, she turned on her heel without a word, ready to see to the others.

 

\---

 

Sansa paced the floors of Theon’s room restlessly; the red priestesses had made frequent visits to monitor Theon’s condition. He had yet to wake, but he was breathing. She only stopped in her tracks when Daenerys knocked and came in, her face woeful when she observed that Theon hadn’t moved since last she was in.

 

Nearly forgetting her courtesies in the tangle of her own thoughts, Sansa bowed, and Dany smiled but waved it away. “Any news?”

 

Sansa shook her head, walking over to draw open the makeshift curtains that had been put up to keep the chill out prior to the war, and drew them open to allow more light in now that they were graced with it a bit more. “They won’t tell me anything. Maybe it’s for the best...so I don’t get my hopes up. And Jon?”

 

Dany’s eyes fell to the floor, then back to her. “Much the same as everyone else, I think.”

 

Studying her a moment, Sansa contemplated her words, not wishing to speak out of line, though moreso in terms of what was appropriate. “I know this is probably an absurd question, but Is everything alright?”

 

Shrugging slightly, Dany folded her hands in front of her. “I feel stuck. Like I’m being suspended, or...like I’m watching myself from the outside in. I can’t seem to get out of it.”

 

Sansa poked at the fire as it breathed back to life. “If I may speak so boldly, Your Grace...it seems, to me, as though you don’t  _ want _ to be out of it.”

 

Eyes narrowing a little, Dany didn’t take offense, but rather couldn’t understand her meaning.

 

Sansa stood from her crouch and took a few paces closer to her, a gentle smile on her face. “I think you feel that you owe everyone a piece of yourself for what happened. I’ve been watching you since we arrived; you haven’t slept in three days, you’re carrying a child, and you’ve barely eaten. Nothing that happened was your fault. I know that I wasn’t there, but...it doesn’t sound like much of anything could be done until the end.”

 

Dany closed her eyes for a second before finding a seat, unwilling to admit how weak she had been feeling. “I’m supposed to be their queen, and I failed so many of them,” she frowned. “So much death…,” she looked up tearfully at Sansa now her throat constricting. “They were begging me to liberate them with fire, Sansa. And I didn’t do it, and instead thought I could destroy the Night King on my own, and then...and then the wildfire…I thought Jon was gone....” she shook her head, the images vividly replaying her mind as she squeezed her eyes shut as if it would erase them.

 

Sansa sat across from her, then reached out to take her hand in a friendly manner. “It is  _ not _ your fault. What if Drogon ignited the wildfire at close range? You and he would probably be dead. I know this sounds awful, truly I do...but the small folk did not stand a chance until the Night King was defeated. Not just them, but our own alliances, as well, and they were armed and prepared for the war. From what I hear, Cersei didn’t inform  _ anyone _ about the threat of the dead. It was her ploy to trap them; she wanted  _ you _ to be the one to burn the city to its roots, but she was a coward and did it all on her own. And I can tell you from living with her, she felt no remorse when she made that decision.”

 

Dany collected her face into her hands, ashamed when she blubbered against her intention, and Sansa moved to sit upon the arm of the chair and gently rub her shoulder. Just as she was beginning to catch her breath again, a whimper from the bed caused them both to jerk their heads in its direction.

 

Theon’s face shifted into a pained one, his hand clenching at his chest where the puncture was, and Sansa was quick to run to his side and alleviate his hold on it. Her eyes widened further, darting along his face, disbelieving that he was returning to her. He brought his knees up and his eyes parted open into slits, blinded by the sharp light in the room with a groan. Dany stood at the end of the room to allow them their privacy, a relieved smile on her face. When he brought Sansa’s damp eyes into focus, it looks as it he would blubber, but he kept it at bay and instead urged her close to him so that he could embrace her, closing his eyes when the scent of her washed hair filled his nose. She let the tears glaze her cheeks, the warmth that was returning to his body much more pleasing than the chill it had inhabited. When she parted he kissed her gently and then he noticed a second set of eyes on him.

 

Sansa excused herself briefly to fetch the maester, and the restrained grin of happiness she tried withholding met her eyes as she passed. Dany went to Theon’s side, the color in his face resurfacing.

 

“Your Grace,” he murmured,  his face contorting with each ebb of pain.

 

“You don’t have to speak; save your energy, please,” she said pleasantly and he nodded, and when Sansa returned with Maester Henly, she quietly made her exit.

 

Closing the door behind her, she leaned her back against it briefly allowing her eyes to close only briefly, but she could feel her body falling and she opened her eyes in time to catch herself. To her relief, nobody had been around to witness it, and she walked until she found her chambers. On the table beside her bed lay a fang belonging to Viserion. Already her eyes began to sting, slowly walking to it, her lips quivering. After the war, she had privately gone in search of his corpse, and it hadn’t been too difficult given his size. She had run her hand over the mangled flesh of his withered hide, unfamiliar to her. His body had decayed further but didn’t shatter as the White Walkers had, and for that she was grateful, and she extracted a tooth from his mouth. It came out smoothly as if never rooted, and she mourned for the loss of her child then; the loss that she believed she had to experience in order to bear a human child once more.

 

Her legs crumbled then and she stumbled onto her bed, sobbing freely; for all of them, those she loved and those she never met who died fighting for the greater good and those who would be damaged forever in the aftermath. For the innocents who were naive as to what was coming for them, that there had been no dragon queen coming to raze their homes in order to conquer the city and instill fear into their hearts.

 

Her eyes burned and she cradled her arms around herself, and she stopped abruptly when she felt a flutter in her stomach. Frowning, she sat up straighter and placed her hand at her lower abdomen, stalling her breath until it came again...and again. She looked down and new tears fell this time; she had been so certain she’d lost the baby when she was thrown from Drogon, having felt the same sensation for most of the morning before they flew into King’s Landing, and it had been absent since her fall until now. She felt guilty for lying to Tyrion; in her grief, she hadn’t yet called on Maester Henly as she was certain of the loss, and she didn’t wish to burden Tyrion with more depressing news, so instead she conjured up a small tale. Presently she was unsure if it was truly for him or for herself.

 

Inhaling deeply, she slowly released the air, concentrating on easing away her doubts, fears and dismay. After drying her eyes, she left her bedchambers and made for Jon’s, pausing a moment at the door before she slowly turned the handle and peeked inside. Seeing that he wasn’t asleep, she fit herself through the door and clicked it shut behind her, almost afraid to look at him now. Even in her avoidance she could sense that his eyes bore into her from across the room.

 

A movement caught her attention and she looked up to see he had forced himself to sit upright and moved the covers further down the bed, an audible wince sounding from him. Ghost laid at his feet, and he lifted his head when she came closer. Stretching onto his feet he stood higher than she. When she was close enough, she outstretched her hand to his nose to grant him a sniff before moving closer and burying her fingers into his neck. A soft pur erupted from his chest and he butt his head against hers, his preferred symbol of affection. Jon smiled from behind, and Dany took her spot beside him.

 

It didn’t go unnoticed to him that her eyes were freshly sore and wet, her eyelashes stuck together where they hadn’t yet dried. He didn’t wish to push her, so he allowed her space and her own time to decide when to speak. Ghost circled around at their feet until he thumped down into a full circular bundle of fur, his tail blanketing his snout. While Jon waited, he reached over and took her hand, resting in the space between them.

 

“I’m sorry I’ve been so absent,” she whispered, attention focused on their hands together.

 

A crease formed between his brow and he shook his head. “You’re only doing what you do best, seeing that everyone is cared for and comfortable. Besides that, I’m alive-”

 

“No,” she interjected with a bit more force than she meant, apologizing before she continued. “It’s not an excuse. That’s not how one treats someone they love.” She drew in a silent breath of air. “I thought I’d lost the baby.” Her words came out strong, but she was glad that they did as the knot formed in her throat once more.

 

Half turning to face her, his eyes studied her face in the way that they did when he was digesting something that perplexed him; as if he had heard something that wasn’t actually said and only imagined.

 

“It was everything else and then on top of that, the idea that the curse was real; it was like the world was telling me I could have it all but not without some form of atonement,” she muttered, her voice dangling on failing her. “That recurring punishment seemed to have followed me since  I first miscarried.”

 

Jon considered this for a while, looking around in thought and swallowing before attending Dany once more. “And now?”

 

A second passed and her lips pulled into an unrestrained smile. Finally, she acknowledged him, though his obsidian eyes so filled with cautious hope nearly made her avert her gaze elsewhere. “There was a feeling...just before I came here. It was the same one I felt before, only stronger.”

 

Without saying anything, he reached over, ignoring his body’s protests, and brought her in close so that he could kiss her fully. For a countless time that day her eyes moistened and she sighed against him, finding solace in this moment together. He broke away and she laid beside him until they would conclude the evening in a deep slumber.


	20. Part XX - Under the Heart Tree

The snow was slowly thawing, meshing into the frozen tundra to layer it in a slippery surface of mud. While everyone was on the mend, a handful of civilians whom had traveled to Dragonstone had succumbed to injuries they endured from the wildfire blast, namely deep and festering burns that had putrified during their travel. Maester Henly had been clamoring restlessly since they returned, but Sam had been at his heels taking note and lending a hand where he could. The priests of the Fiery Hand had done their part, but were required by their lord to return to the Free City of Volantis to guard its temples once more and to bring Melisandre’s body back with them.

 

It wasn’t the only departure they would be facing as they gathered in the great hall, Dany perched on the stone throne and Jon in a tall wooden chair at her side. It had been only the second time he had left his bed, and he had to force his brain to remember how to use his legs again as they grew weak from lack of use. The first occurrence was when he had requested to visit with Bran’s body, which he did so with Arya; his little brother could have been sleeping, his face relaxed and rested but his pale skin cold and rigid. It took a lot out of him to sit upright properly as it stretched his healing skin, but he did his best to appear present and cognizant. Ghost sat loyally at his side, as he had never left him the moment he had returned.

 

“I received a raven just before you all returned; Winterfell is being reconstructed, though the food shortage has afflicted them and with the season many of them did not survive,” Sansa announced before them. “With your permission, Your Grace, I’d like to return home with the remaining northerners and to bring Bran’s body back so he may rest peacefully in the crypts.”

 

Dany nodded calmly, although the thought of more death unsettled her. Despite some of the northerners refuting her claim, she did not  _ wish  _ death upon them, but understood that’s what banishing them back to Winterfell could result in. She consulted Jon beside her, whom she knew would not have any qualms with it, but she would need to get used to sharing her decisions with him. It was strangely thrilling for her; she never would have expected to have  _ wanted _ it. With a nod by Jon, Dany regarded Sansa once more.

 

“You may take all the ships you need, and I will offer any help from my - our - remaining armies should it be warranted. I know those residing in Winterfell are not overly fond of me, but as the hosts of our eventual wedding, I feel it necessary they use all resources we can offer before we address the north’s independence,” Dany said, a pleasant smile on her face.

 

With a bow, Sansa retreated from the great hall to make preparations. In what looked to be a serious conversation were Gendry and Arya, and Dany waited a moment before she spoke. “Gendry.”

 

He turned his head suddenly, sitting up straighter and pausing before he approached closer to the steps. Arya watched with a small smile on her face, knowing what was to come.

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” he responded without a bow, though it made Dany smile regardless.

 

“You’ve fought selflessly and bravely for both your king and queen,” she began softly. “You fought alongside us despite tradition telling us that our families should be at odds with one another given our history. We will need a strong alliance at Storm’s End, and as there are no longer any living trueborn Baratheon males living, I name you Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

 

It was slow to absorb as noted on his face, and it wasn’t until Ser Davos sprung from his position to break the silence with a cheer, which was followed by all else. Gendry grinned widely, bowing awkwardly in their direction before rejoining Arya and leaning close into her ear. As a hum of discussion filled the air, Dany turned slightly so that she was within earshot of Jon, but was interrupted as Grey Worm led in a older man, slight in build and hair greyed and his eyes friendly. He was dressed in green and bronze and his face was as flawed as everyone else’s from the war, so at the very least he was an ally of theirs.

 

He bowed properly before each of them. “Your Grace...Your Grace.” His brown eyes hardly moved from Jon’s, though Jon was not familiar with this man. “Last I saw you, you were not yet an hour old. Howland Reed, Your Grace. I was a good friend of Ned’s, and your mother’s, many years ago.”

 

Jon’s face softened considerably and he and Dany shared a glance before he attempted to sit up further.

 

“Please,” Howland stopped him, and after a visible approval, walked up the stairs to shake Jon’s hand and took his place on the floor once more.

 

“How did you know them?” Jon asked keenly, always eager to learn more of his blood parents.

 

A grin of warm familiarity stretched along Howland’s lips at the memory. “At the tourney of Harrenhal I was attacked by some sods of squires, and Lyanna was quick to come to my defense. After that she introduced me to Ned and her other brothers, and thereafter we became close friends. During the Rebellion we went in search of her when it was believed Rhaegar had stolen her away, and I was there the day you were born. When I received your raven, I knew what I had to do, so we rallied all that we could to travel south. I hope you will forgive our delay - the weather was harsh and our ravens found it difficult to master a response to you all. I had hoped to meet you properly if I’d survived the last war, and here I stand.”

 

Jon was overwhelmed; Howland was older and kind, and any friend of his family was a friend to him. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord. We cannot begin to express how appreciative we are for you to have traveled such a distance during the storm to aid us.”

 

“The ghost of Lyanna Stark would have my head if I’d done anything different,” he chirped with a laugh, an amused exchange shared between Jon and Dany.

 

“We can have a room and a meal prepared for you if you’d wish to stay, Lord Reed,” Dany offered sweetly.

 

Howland considered her a moment; perhaps a moment longer than he intended, Jon noted with some entertainment, and he wouldn’t blame him for being captivated by her beauty. It had been the same for him in this very room, standing where Howland stood, that she drew the breath from him when he first saw her.

 

“You’re very kind, Your Grace; I had intended on making my travels back home today, but my bones are not as capable as they once were,” he cackled lightly. “Perhaps it would be wise of me to stay for one night’s rest, if you’ll have me.”

 

“Of course,” she responded, then made the gesture for a room to be prepared for him, and he followed to be rid of his heavy layers.

 

\---

 

When the late afternoon arrived, ships had been readied to make leave for Winterfell, Bran’s body encased in a makeshift wooden coffin and loaded early on. As they shared their farewells, Sansa looked between both Jon and Dany.

 

“I’ll be sure to send a raven to let you know how the conditions are, and then another a few days in advance when we’ll be ready for your arrival,” she smiled, her eyebrows raising slightly. “We’ll need to rally some of the other kingdoms and see what sort of rations we can pull for, and what’s left.”

 

“We don’t need anything fancy-” Jon began to protest, but Sansa was quick to cut him off.

 

“Your wedding is not going to be something resembling Flea Bottom,” she insisted. “It’s going to be a proper wedding, and it’s going to feel like home. You’ve both more than earned at least that much.”

 

“Safe travels, Lady Sansa,” Dany said, holding her friend’s hands. “I hope it won’t be too long before we see you again.”

 

They shared a final embrace and was the last to board. The dragons screeching up ahead circled above as if seeing them off, and after a few more moments, Dany walked alongside Jon back toward the castle. He had still been relatively weak, and even small distances tired him, so she had to support him much to the wounding of his pride.

 

“We’ll need to start thinking about the repairs of King’s Landing,” he said quietly in thought with a limp.

 

“We will,” Dany assured. “But I find myself thinking less of that right now and more of the present. Is that selfish?”

 

Jon craned his head to look at her. “No. You’ve done the admirable thing by bringing its people here when their homes and families were destroyed. King’s Landing can wait.”

 

A small smile pulled on her lips and she stopped them when they came upon the privacy of a stone wall, away from all other eyes. They were to bed wed, but it still felt indecent to display affection in front of anyone before their vows were shared. Her eyes were soft as she stared into his dark ones, and she came to notice that though he was still pained, as they all were, there was a little bit of an ease in there that she had rarely seen before. The angle on the hill in which they stood forced her onto her toes until she reached his lips, kissing him fully, the sensation tingling her skin from her head all the way down to her toes. He sighed into her, bringing his good arm to snake around her waist, all of his tensions and worries at bay while he held her. If he had even half the stamina that he normally did, he very well would have dragged her off to his bedchambers then, but he was internally flustered that just walking was strenuous on him. He missed her touch and craved the feeling of her soft, warm skin beneath his hands, sharing body heat beneath the thick covers and igniting the lustful fire in her eyes.

 

When she pulled away, he held her close to him, her head against his chest while they stood cliffside in a tranquil silence. The sea was beginning to come alive again as the ice crackled and disappeared into the water below, small pulses of waves ebbing at the beach now. For once they had no need to rush inside to see to any war counsels, to follow up on the progress of the Night King, or to worry over numbers and threats. Instead, they held each other for a long time as the gentle breeze whirled around them, no sound but that of the thriving earth around them.

 

\---

 

Suppers weren’t as elegant as they had been prior to winter, but it was able to feed the hungry. Davos was kind enough to send word to the other kingdoms to announce their triumph, but they were growing more needy for food supply. As the southernmost regions had been least affected by the weather and the war, Dorne had been the first to respond by sending a shipment of a variety of fruits and poultry, cheeses and strongwine. Day by day more and more crates were filed in, everything from vegetables to wild game to fresh herbs and spices, and day by day more of the small folk expressed their gratitude for both Dany and Jon, for sheltering them and seeing to their wellbeing. But as many of them had only fled to the capital for a false safety, they missed home and what families were left were sure to have begun wondering if they’d survived, so the numbers of Dragonstone’s inhabitants quickly dwindled.

 

Dany had decided they would ration what food they had, and since there were less mouths to feed, would begin dividing it up to send to the other northern kingdoms who had most suffered from lack of food.

 

Over two weeks had passed before they received their first raven from Winterfell, in which Sansa noted that reconstruction was making progress now that the weather was much more mild. The northerners were still a little bitter, but had calmed considerably, and she made a point to inform them that their isolation from the crown already had an effect on them, though they would not wish to admit such defeatist thoughts. Bran had been buried in the crypt beside Ned, and a statue had been etched both in his memory and for Summer’s to sit beside him.

 

Dany and Jon began to make arrangements; they had been in contact with the newly appointed captain of the Golden Company in the Free Cities regarding their payment. They received word in return that they would only require their original sum, as Dany and Sansa had both promised double what Cersei was willing to pay, in exchange that the other half be put forth toward the rebuilding of King’s Landing and its surrounding area. Since much of their men had died in the war, it severed the necessary amount to be repaid anyhow. It was most unexpected, but relief flooded Dany, for the less debt within the kingdoms, the less strain she had to trouble over.

 

While they were preparing for rest late into one evening, Jon sat at the edge of Dany’s bed and stripped off his boots in a deep thought from a particularly exhausting day full of events, but became distracted when Dany slid on a light sleeping gown, admiring the very slight swell of her belly through its fabric with a pleased smile. “We still have yet to choose a name.”

 

Dany turned to him then, her face fresh from grinning like a little girl at her changing figure. He stretched out his arms and she walked into them, coming to sit in his lap. Her hair was mostly loose, with a couple of thin braids holding back strands away from her face. “I’ve been thinking on it more the past few nights, and I keep coming back to my mother...Rhaella. Each time a name crosses my mind, I always come back to that one.”

 

Jon smiled when she looked down at him uncertainly, unsure of his thoughts. “Rhaella, then.” Her brows angled and a grin broke out onto her face as she leaned down to kiss him, sweet and ginger at first until Jon’s craving for her intensified, his breeches growing tight as he glided her tongue along her lips and she opened them further to allow him in. His left hand lifted to hold her behind her neck, his brows furrowing as he deepened their kiss and she rotated so that she was straddling his hips now. With each passing second their fervor multiplied, their breathing shallow and Jon groaned gruffly when her hand ran along his length trapped beneath his pants.

 

Dany pressed into him further, and her hands fiddled at the fastenings of his breeches until the ache of his cock was relieved from its constraints, but was refueled when her soft hand took hold of it and began to pump in a slow, delicate rhythm. It had been so long since last they were able to be together in this way, and each of her touches sent his head spinning as if it were his first time, his hands wrapping around to grope into her arse and pulling her closer to his wanting cock. She nibbled on his bottom lip and pushed herself up onto her knees, and he had already hoisted up the length of her gown to her hips where he held it, and the warm slickness of her as she mounted atop him was almost too much by itself. He felt almost bashful at how hypersensitive everything felt to him, but Dany was thrilled, and decided she would play first. With her hands on his shoulders and his gripping her firmly at the hips, she glided nonchalantly from root to tip, and he had to use every bit of strength in him to not collapse, freeing one hand to lean back on it as the furs below collected in his fist.

 

Gently, she pushed his chest down to lay and guided him fully onto the bed, forcing him to relax with a gentle hush, but somehow the notion made his cock pulse more violently. Any time she took charge, rode him as gallantly as she did, it was enough to drive him mad, and he feared he would release sooner than he wished. Her heavy eyes watched his face contort into pleasant agony, his eyes squeezed shut and bringing a fist up to sink his teeth into, causing her to quicken her pace. In one easy glide she guided him inside her, and in unison they gasped into the air while Dany paused to bring him back down for a moment.

 

With her fingers grazing along his abdomen, she slid them beneath his tunic to caress lightly with every slow thrust, her knees pinching at his sides to steady herself. She closed her eyes and memorized each stroke, the sensation when the head of his cock pushed in until it could no longer, the heat sweltering yet causing a cold sweat to sheen on her skin. Jon opened his eyes, his breath constantly trapping in his throat and exhaling in heavy huffs as he reached his arms forward to massage her full breasts beneath the silk material. It didn’t go unnoticed to him that they had swelled with her pregnancy, though he was gentle enough knowing that they were still tender to her. A small moan escaped her, and with each of her heaves downward, he pushed his hips up into her, her mouth falling agape in his cooperation.

 

The heat of her constricting walls causing a rough friction against his cock was nearly throwing him over, and soon he was arching his back and growling into the room, his hands finding her hips once more as he slowly rolled them in circles over him, and a few seconds later she joined him, her body quivering and weakening as she fell onto her palms, hovering over him. Her hair fell over her shoulders and tickled his sides, the underlayers slightly dampened.

 

When Jon found his breath again, he pulled her down and kissed her forehead, trailing down to her nose and finally her lips, and she gave in and laid atop him. Her eyes looked over the healing, purpled wounds along his skin, a variety of long jagged strokes and circular punctures that were now flat again. Lightly her finger traced along the one at his shoulder where the Night King had stabbed him after Jon had thrown himself between her and the dead king; a scar that would carry a heavy memory that she one day could tell their daughter. How heroic her father had been, how heroic he had  _ always _ been, and even in knowing what his death would entail would still sacrifice himself for the life of his family. He may have failed, he may have died, but he had made the decision without hesitation. And somehow she grew to love him more, something she thought an impossibility.

 

Eventually they both cleaned up, taking their time as they did so, relishing in the time they  _ did _ have. When they conjoined in the bed again, she laid half on top of him at his side, and his hand came to run along the small belly she carried.

 

“You never sat on the Iron Throne,” he pointed out suddenly.

 

“No,” she said softly, staring at nothing particular outside. “It didn’t feel right. So much blood was spilled...and you weren’t there to share it with me.” His muscled arm squeezed her closer, thumb idly gliding over her stomach. “For all we know, it may not stand any longer.”

 

The memories from the war were rushing back to Jon like a massive wave; he had been most focused on his recovery and all that needed his immediate attentions afterward. “Ser Jorah fought bravely. I didn’t know him well, but if he could have chosen a way to die, it would have been protecting you.”

 

He could feel the small nod of her head against his chest. “He was one of my longest, closest friends despite his initial order to spy on my every move and whereabouts.”

 

“We’ve all done things we weren’t proud of,” he said. “What matters is if you learn from it and better yourself.”

 

“Such wisdom, my king,” she teased slightly, earning herself a small chuckle from him beneath her ear. “Do you hold any regrets?”

 

His eyes searched the room in thought. He had never really considered it before. “If you had asked me a year ago I would have talked your ear off into dawn about my regrets. But I don’t have any now. They led me here.”

 

Dany shifted so that she could look up at him now. “What were they? If I may ask.”

 

His eyebrows raised; it was a hefty answer. “To spend more time with my father and siblings before I left for Castle Black. To push my father on the matter of who my mother was. To have accepted Stannis’s offer to legitimize me as a Stark. If I had my head on straight then I would have fought joining the Watch, but I was so naive and eager then. I had no idea what it would bring.”

 

“Would you like to be named Jon Stark?” There was a sweetness to her tone that made him turn so that he faced her and could see her properly.

 

“Not anymore. I’d wanted it all my life, but everything that’s happened, happened as I am now.” The corner of his lips twitched into a small smile, and she leaned forward to kiss him for a long beat. After she pulled away, she rolled over to her bedside stand and blew out the candle, leaving them in the glow of the roaring hearth and returned to Jon’s embrace.

 

\---

 

It was just short of two months when Sansa sent a follow up raven to announce that Winterfell was restored; it hadn’t been at its most formidable, but very little had been left and she reassured them that it wouldn’t hinder their wedding..

 

In their time of rest, Dany and Jon continued to filter food from Dragonstone to the surrounding kingdoms until they could harvest their own. The remaining civilians of King’s Landing had found temporary shelter within the surroundings cities of the capital, so their food supply grew exponentially as the population dwindled.

 

Almost everyone had returned to a relatively normal state of mind, though not without forgetting those who had succumbed. Tyrion was the last to break free of the fog, and Dany had been grateful when he did. He had been so downcast and isolated, and nothing she said or did seemed to bring him out of it, so she had decided that perhaps he needed to mourn in private.

 

Drogon and Rhaegal continued to thrive, the warming of the bay making their hunting far easier, though Dany knew they would appreciate the freedom of the surrounding land to feast on a broader variety of meats once they made headway for the north.

 

Grey Worm took the task of seeing that Missandei’s body was returned to Naath, though explained that as he was not a native of their island, would have to come to know their leader prior to stepping onto their land to prevent immediate illness and death. He had promised in his practiced common tongue that he would regret missing the wedding, but promised to be present for the coronation, wherever they decided it would be.

 

The halls of Dragonstone were becoming barren the more people left. Each of them began to pack their belongings before they would make their departure for Winterfell. Tormund had intended to join the wedding festivities and then would be returning to the freefolk, and it saddened Jon that it would probably be some time before he would see the ginger man again.

 

Maester Henly had praised Sam for his willing and adept hands and announced that he would be sure to have the Citadel know of his achievements, assuring him that he would likely be promoted to an acholyte and if he resumed his training there, would become a maester after some time. As was expected, Sam accepted despite the guilt he felt for stealing some of the books from the library, but he thought he could easily persuade the other maesters his thievery brought him knowledge that contributed to the survival of the realm.

 

What remained of the Dothraki was a small fraction now, as it was with the Unsullied. Dany had asked for them to convene with them for one final celebratory feast at Winterfell before they would return to Essos. Their place was in the scolding heat of the deserts that didn’t fluctuate as it did in Westeros, and as they were free men, could go where they pleased.

 

Neither party usually relished such delicacies, but they accepted the invitation regardless. The war was won, and they would toast to those who gave their lives for it to be as such. When their modest armada was full once more, they sailed for White Harbor, Drogon and Rhaegal flying off until they were unseen in the clearer skies. The sea was much kinder than it had been when they traveled south, and it had been freed of the thick sheet of ice that had once blanketed the surface.

 

Though Dany would not admit it, her stomach was in knots; realizations were crashing down on her, though they were mostly pleasant. She was to be a mother, to be wed, to wear the crown, to fulfil not only her deepest, long-awaited wishes, but would be filled with ones she had long given up on. Pieces that had been torn from her were being sewn whole. She would be foolish to not feel at least slightly anxious about how she would be received in the north, though she did trust Sansa’s word that she would reign the northerners in.

 

It was just shy of a fortnight when they anchored at White Harbor, and though there was still a northern chill in the air, it was much more mild than when they last were there. They carefully brought their horses to the dock; they had been aloof and frightened when they had first boarded, but their nerves calmed once the ships reached smoother water and wavered less.

 

They rode a week longer, and finally the ramparts of Winterfell came into view, and immediately Jon smiled, feeling his own stomach churning now that reality was settling in. Dany watched him with interest and pressed her lips together in a tight smile, the horses sloshing through the muddy trail below. When they finally grew closer, a voice could be heard to open the gates. At either side of them, lines of people had gathered to witness their arrival, and Drogon and Rhaegal wailed over their heads. Even though it wasn’t the first time they’d seen the beasts, plenty of the small folk cowered at the sound.

 

When they passed through the entryway, Sansa and some of the other inhabitants were there to greet them. Her eyes were bright and proud, waiting patiently for them to dismount. Jon was the first to embrace her, followed by Dany, and Sansa gave her a knowing look when her slightly protruding belly brushed against her. Even under watchful eyes Dany couldn’t suppress a wide grin, and the rest of them filtered in.

 

Jon tilted his head upward to absorb the work that had been done, then turned his attention back to Sansa. “It looks just as it did before,” he huffed a small laugh.

 

“Some of the stone was still salvageable, so it was a bit easier of a transition,” she explained, turning so that she could hug Arya to her side. Gendry stood by her side. Theon followed and Sansa excused herself momentarily, throwing herself into him so hard he nearly fell with her to the ground. In his recovery he had remained at Dragonstone under the watchful eye of Maester Henly, and much progress had been made, but he was still in need of assistance when long distances were involved. The spear that the Night King had punctured him with had been deterred by his chainmail, but even so the point of it managed to pierce his flesh and bone with such force that it grazed his heart. Had the priests of the Fiery Hand not been there to provide healing spells, he would have died that very afternoon.

 

His arms wrapped tightly around her, uncaring that most of the attention focused on their embrace, and she nuzzled her face into the side of his neck. When she pulled away, her eyes darted around to confirm her suspicions; plenty of smiling faces and a few stray chirps reddened her cheeks, and in a cheeky motion, Theon brought her face to him and kissed her fully but shortly. This ignited a flurry of the northern men to hoot and holler, and she had to bite her lip to not scold Theon for being so bold, but internally she didn’t hate it.

 

Jon had paid extra attention and care to the fastenings of his horse’s saddle, releasing his swords with a slow intention, and Dany made a point to tease him for being unable to handle his sister’s public affections. In response, he glowered playfully at her, but was interrupted when Sansa returned to them.

 

“Now, we have separate chambers cleaned and fixed for each of you,” she said happily, gathering her hands before her while everyone followed her lead inside. The one time that Dany allowed her eyes to travel upward at the balcony where northerners gathered, she was surprised to find that they weren’t scornful. In fact, they mostly began to continue about their day except for those who were reuniting with familiar faces.

 

As they walked through the courtyard, Sansa continued. “You will spend the day tomorrow without seeing one another while we finish preparations. Then the following evening we’ll hold the ceremony in the Godswood and the feast will begin soon after. I’ve had a few tailors at work on fixing the attire for the occasion; I hope you’ll both like what they’ve done.”

 

“And the northerners?” Jon asked, following as they entered the castle.

 

“Won’t be an issue. I promise,” Sansa insisted, stopping and turning to face them. “Now, say your farewells and be on your way. Jon, your chambers are in the same room, and I’ll show the queen where hers will be.” She smirked slightly, walking to the far end of the room to give them privacy, poring over various parchments.

 

Jon turned to Dany, a small, warm smile adorning each of them. He kept his voice low. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, I suppose.”

 

Dany nodded, her eyes darting between his eyes and lips before she stood taller to kiss him; Sansa kept her eyes down, but smiled seeing them from her peripheral vision.

 

“Sleep well,” she said softly when she parted from him, then joined Sansa to seek her quarters.

 

When the door opened, they were greeted with a rush of warm air from the burning hearth, and it warmed Dany from outside in. It was evident that the room had been cleaned through from every crease and corner, the bed set and fluffed anew, but her eyes became fixed on the ivory white gown that contrasted sharply against the thick covers of the bed. Slowly she walked over, but suddenly turned to Sansa. “May I see it?”

 

“Of course,” Sansa cooed lightly, walking with her. An audible gasp drew from Dany’s lips and her fingers gingerly ran along the material. The outermost layer was laden with white furs, though not so bulky. The bosom was of a heart-shape, a slight modest dip in the middle, and the feathered fur of the shoulders flared slightly past where her own would be into gentle flicks. The sleeves were long and flared slightly at the wrists. The bodice was sewn in a pattern to resemble dragon scales, coming to synch asymmetrically at the waist and open and split to either side, opening to a thinner silk skirt beneath that would cover her legs. A slit in the silk would reach her knees for better ease of movement. A white cloak with the fastenings of a silver brooch of the three-headed dragon that would clasp at her chest bone and flow lavishly over her shoulders and behind her, thick white furs atop the shoulders and wrapping to mid-back.

 

Dany’s mouth opened and closed many times, but words failed her for a time. “Lady Sansa...I don’t even know what to say,” she breathed, her brows raised in wonderment.

 

“I’m only relieved to know that you like it. I’ve had something made for Jon too, so you won’t have to worry about his northern stench.”

 

Dany couldn’t help but chuckle, and Sansa snickered in response. “We have several very excited maids that will come to you in the morning to help get you ready; they’re well-versed in all different kinds of hair techniques and can get you anything else you may request.”

 

Turning around, Dany looked at Sansa with awe. “I don’t even know how to begin to thank you. You’ve had...so much responsibility to take on, and you’ve gone and outdone yourself just for us.”

 

“‘Just for us’? I’d rather like to think of ‘us’ as family; not to mention, we would all be dead if it weren’t for the both of you. Everyone should be on their knees praising you. I’ve only had to deal with politics and the like.”

 

“You’re being humble; let us just agree that the world would be far less better if we women weren’t here to put it in its rightful place,” Dany retorted playfully, a childish giggle erupting from both of them. Dany closed the space between them to hug Sansa warmly. “Thank you...for everything.”

 

After a moment, Sansa left Dany to the privacy of her room.

 

\---

 

The remainder of the afternoon and the evening crawled, and nighttime felt like it had come to a complete halt. In their separate chambers, Dany and Jon were restless in their beds, tossing and turning and sighing when nothing they did would induce sleep. At one point, Dany got out of the bed, pacing the room in hopes that she could tire herself out that way, but her mind and heart were racing as if it were a competition to outdo one another. She stepped out onto the chill of the balcony, but it only awakened her further, and she mentally cursed herself. Half of her was tempted to seek out Maester Henly for a sleep potion, but it was far too late to wake anyone.

 

After a while, she left her chambers in naught but her silken sleep gown; not a sound could be heard from where she stood, so there was no fear of anyone coming across her. She padded down the halls, the small flames of the sconces casting a gentle glow upon the walls, and her eyes studied the interior. She had only seen the exterior of the castle, and  even then it had been in the darkness of night in the midst of a siege. She crossed her arms over her chest, the bottom of her feet cold from the stone below, and as she passed a pillar, she came to notice a slight orange glimmer from beneath a closed door up ahead.

 

In her head she wondered if it had been Jon’s chambers, and then pondered the idea that perhaps he couldn’t rest as well. Stopping in her tracks, she was most tempted to knock or just walk in, but it would have been most embarrassing if it hadn’t been his, but curiosity had gotten the best of her. If it came to it, she could blame her lack of direction in an unfamiliar home and be on her way. Pressing her ear to the wooden door, there was no indication of life inside, and her hand found the handle, turning slowly until there was no longer a give and gingerly cracked it open. When she poked her head in, she peered around to find the slow rise and fall of Jon’s bare chest in his bed. 

 

A small smile stretched across her lips, and she quietly clicked the door closed behind her and padded to his bedside, craning her head to see him properly, a warmth flooding her. Given his soft breathing, it told her he had only recently fallen asleep. She absorbed the sight of him, from his loosened mess of raven curls, to his long, dark eyelashes and the coarseness of his beard, his full lips slightly parted in easy breaths. His muscled shoulders and scarred chest and abdomen, arm cast lazily over the middle of him until the furs met them. Half of her wanted to climb in beside him, knowing that with his warmth beside her she could be asleep in seconds, but she didn’t wish to stir him or how perfect he looked to her now. Instead, she leaned down, collecting her loose, wavy strands so as not to wake him, and planted a soft kiss along his cheek.

 

She allowed herself to study him a bit longer before she found herself back in her own bed, forcing her eyes shut and begging sleep to take over. When she next opened her eyes, she groaned; the light of the morning hue was pouring in rounded, long circles onto the floor, and it took her a few seconds to notice that a few maids had begun taking care to fill a hot tub of water for her. How she had not woken to them entering told her she must have fallen into a deep state of sleep. When she sat up, she kept the cover up to her chest, watching as the three young girls flitted about the room, sharing whispered instructions to one another. 

 

A brown-haired girl did a double-take when she saw that Dany had risen, and a shy smile crossed her lips. “I hope we did not wake you, Your Grace. We can be dismissed if you’d like to rest some more,” she said politely, and Dany was a little taken aback when she addressed her formally, as she would not be  _ their _ queen.

 

“No, that’s quite alright. I actually have quite an appetite, actually, but I can find the kitchens,” she said groggily, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

 

Another girl was at her side in no time with a large wooden tray in hand. “No worries, Your Grace, we’ve already had your breakfast prepared.”

 

Dany raised her eyebrows, the sight of the various meats, cheeses and fruits making her stomach turn in eager anticipation. She thanked them before plucking a thick quarter of cheese, nibbling on it for a taste before consuming the rest. It was a fine, sharp flavor that made her crave more and her stomach growl, though she would have to refrain from shoving the entirety of the serving down her throat in front of strangers.

 

She was helped in undressing and getting into the tub, washed and brushed and fawned over as if she had been under their care all this time. Certainly she was grateful if not bashful, but it reminded her of Missandei, and how she would have loved sharing these moments with her the most. Then her thoughts traveled to Ser Jorah, who would have been nothing less than jovial for her despite his unending love for her. All of it made her incredibly sad, but she was quickly snapped out of it when one of the maids gently repositioned Dany so that she could scrub down her back.

 

“Are you ladies from here?” Dany asked softly, feeling strangely at ease in her bareness, the gentle motions of the cloth along her back causing her drowsiness to return.

 

“Torrhen’s Square, Your Grace; a few days’ ride just south of here,” the girl behind her explained. In Dany’s slightly more alertness she observed that the three of them looked almost identical, and she deducted that they must have been sisters. 

 

They tended to every part of her, scrubbing diligently beneath her fingernails, filing them with a small stone, gingerly paying special attention to her face. When the washing was complete, they dabbed her with a lightly scented perfume that was pleasing to her nose, and she was then wrapped in a thick robe that had been warmed beside the fire, and she shivered from the transition of cold to hot against her skin. They sat her before a looking glass beside the hearth and brushed out her damp tendrils, and they slowly bounced back into soft waves as they dried.

 

If the girls didn’t seem so enthusiastic about their work she would have assured them she could prepare herself just fine, but the girlish smiles that adorned their faces made her decide otherwise. “Do you prefer any particular hair style, Your Grace?” The girl’s hands gently fanned out strands to help them dry near the heat of the fire.

 

Dany thought for a moment, her shoulders relaxing. “Mostly down and soft, I think, but braids are a must for me,” she said sweetly, her fingers idly playing with a piece of fabric between them. “May I ask your names?”

 

“I’m Gwyn,” she one behind her stated while her hands began to weave through Dany’s hair, and the other two were Leona and Mira. They had begun tending to her dress and cloak, flattening creases and fluffing the layers.

 

A knock at the door drew everyone’s attention upward as Dany called for them to enter. To her surprise, it was Arya, who welcomed them with a smile, a bundle of silk in her hands as she made her way to Dany.

 

Dany’s grinned and then her eyes landed on the silk wrap. “What’s this?”

 

“A gift from your husband,” Arya said matter-of-factly, a small smirk on her lips now as Dany carefully put the wrap in her lap. She couldn’t hide the wide smile, and when she unraveled it, a small gasp escaped her lips. Several blue winter roses lay before her, and her attention fell back to Arya.

 

“He wanted me to tell you that when Howland came to Dragonstone, they had met one afternoon and he mentioned that Aunt Lyanna’s favorite flowers were winter roses. They grow in the garden of Winterfell and he wanted you to have some of your own,” Arya explained, and Dany’s eyes began to fill with wetness, but she was stubborn and blinked them away. Her emotions had been so fragile as of late, and her heart felt raw since the war ended.

 

 “They’re absolutely beautiful,” Dany cooed quietly, gently running a finger over the velvet pedals. “Gwyn, do you think these could be worked into my hair? I don’t want to ruin them, though.”

 

“I have an idea,” Gwyn said excitedly, careful to place the bundle within arms length. 

 

Arya looked around briefly before finding Dany’s dress. “His heart is going to stop when he sees you,” she chimed, admiring the craftsmanship.

 

“How is he now?” Dany inquired, lowered her chin slightly while Gwyn worked behind her.

 

Arya’s eyebrow lifted and her attention returned to Dany. “Honestly, you would think he was preparing for another war. I think this may actually be worse for his nerves, somehow.”

 

Dany pressed her lips together and laughed, quietly grateful she wasn’t the only one that was a tangled bundle of nerves. 

 

“Well, I should go get myself ready. We’ll see you later,” she grinned happily, and they shared a brief hug before Arya left the chambers.

 

\---

 

The sun was beginning to set below the horizon.

 

“Stop moving before I  _ make _ yeh stop moving,” Davos scolded Jon, who was appointed by Sansa to be sure that his clothing was properly fit. A black gambeson that ended just before his knees, fitted black trousers, a dragonscale belt at his waist, and a new black cloak topped with a new pelt of grey and black furs.  The cloak clasped at his chest with two silver direwolf brooches; when Robb’s body had been recovered and brought back home, his brooches and cloak had been preserved outside of the crypts, and Sansa reclaimed them to give Jon a small piece of his brother. When Jon had come to his chambers the previous day and found it sitting on the ledge by the hearth, he became overwhelmed with a sweeping sadness. He didn’t often bathe in regret, but if there was one thing he wished he would have risked, it was to be with Robb against the Lannister forces, and to prevent his eventual death at his own wedding.

 

“I’m not used to being fussed over,” Jon muttered back, his fingers running along the inside of the small collar of his gambeson that slightly chafed his neck. His hair was collected into a knot behind his head, his beard neatly trimmed, and none of it he had any control over much to his discontent. Sansa had insisted that he look his best, though he was unsure whether or not he should have been insulted by her comment or not. Mostly he went about it without complaint, though Ser Davos about had enough of his finicky movements. It had been an age since he wore anything besides leathers and plating, and the lightness of the clothing now felt strange and foreign to him.

 

“No worries, lad. The only person who will be fussing after yeh after today will be your wife,” Davos teased, earning himself a playful, warning look. Ghost sighed from where he lay at the foot of the bed.

 

Davos brushed over Jon’s shoulders before clapping him on the back and taking a few paces backward, a proud smile lifting his thick mustache. “A proper king and husband. I’d better leave yeh before I’m down on my knees proposing to yeh myself.” 

 

Jon grinned and averted his eyes to his boots. After a short silence, Davos spoke again. “Now I don’t normally get soft, but I’m proud of yeh. You’ve been akin a proper son to me and I feel like a proud father.”

 

Jon’s face softened and he closed the gap between them to pull Davos into a tight, friendly hug, then held him away by his shoulders. “And you’ve been a valuable advisor and friend. I wouldn’t be standing here had you not summoned Lady Melisandre to bring me back. I won’t forget it.”

 

Davos patted Jon on the arm once more before he made his way out. Jon sucked in a deep breath, slowly releasing it as he gestured for Ghost to join him. When he stepped into the great hall, a soft hum of voices of their guests and friends buzzed about the room, faces turning and conversations pausing when his presence became noticed. A little self-conscious, he sought a familiar face, grateful Tyrion was near. He had been fashioned in beautiful garb that proudly displayed his House colors of gold and red, and he was nervously pulling and stretching at different hems.

 

“I’m not so sure that boasting my near-extinct house is the wisest move, but your sister insisted on it,” he said flatly, then took in Jon’s appearance. “I didn’t think you could get any more handsome, but it will be a nice distraction from me at the very least.”

 

“If they truly hated you they would have tried to see you out the moment you arrived,” Jon said. “Daenerys won’t let any harm come your way and neither will I.”

 

Tyrion smiled, though it appeared as more of a grimace. “I’m not so sure what I did to have the honor of walking her down the aisle.”

 

“You’re starting to sound like me,” Jon noted duly. “Maybe she’s not told you as much, but she values you more than you probably know. I suppose we both struck gold, in different ways.”

 

Before Tyrion could respond, Sansa approached from behind, dressed in a magnificent dress of hues of greys and her ginger hair held down along her back with two conjoining northern braids twisted elegantly at the back center of her head. When she took sight of Jon, she brought her hands to her cheeks and grinned widely with approval. “You look so handsome,” she gushed, then summoned for Tyrion to follow her.

 

Tyrion gave Jon a look that read nothing short of nervousness as he did as asked. When they came upon Dany’s chambers, Sansa knocked before they stepped in. Dany turned her head over her shoulder just as her cloak was clasped, and Tyrion stopped in his steps, placing his hand over his heart.

 

“Your Grace,” he marveled, and she turned fully to face him. Her hair was long and soft in its waves, and two braids at each side joined at the nape of her neck as the blue winter roses had been pinned delicately into them, brilliant against the molten silver of her tresses. The faintest hint of a swell could be noticed at her belly if one looked close enough. A slight pink embellished her cheeks from his gaze. Behind him the murmur of voices grew louder as the guests began to file outside to the Godswood.

 

With a heavy sigh, he outstretched his hand toward her. “Are you ready?”

 

Without a word and a slow exhale, she nodded and took his hand.

 

\---

 

The night sky cast just a faint deep blue hue by the time they left the castle, and the path leading to the Godswood was trailed with lit lanterns at either side of them. It illuminated the Winterfell grounds elegantly, the thin layer of leftover snow casting a bright glow among its dark surroundings. Drogon and Rhaegal flew in wide circles above her, and she looked up to smile adoringly at them, nothing but black silhouettes from where she stood. In the long walk it had only been her and Tyrion.

 

“Are you feeling well, Your Grace?” He asked politely, though to her it sounded as if his voice was a bit strained, and she believed that he was feeling far more emotional than he would ever let on.

 

“I feel as if I’m watching this from someone else’s eyes,” she noted, a slight frown on her face at the realization. “But oddly calm, as well.”

 

“You look absolutely beautiful, not that you ever don’t. And Jon still defies the laws of northern attraction, somehow more so today than he ever has.”

 

Dany’s stomach churned at the image, suddenly wishing she could run to him, a laugh passing through her lips. And then she stopped, and when he got a foot ahead of her he stopped to face her. Kneeling down, she gathered him into her arms, and he hesitated in the sudden motion but happily reciprocated. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Lord Tyrion. For us,” she said, pulling away just enough to see him. “I can’t imagine having to make the decisions you did against your own flesh and blood, deserving or no. But I want you to know your wisdom, and wit, have never gone unnoticed by me. I hope you’d be willing to continue to do so in future.”

 

An unsure smile crossed his face, and he gathered one of her hands in his and placed a kiss on it. “We can discuss the matter later. For now, let’s enjoy some happiness,” he contended affectionately, and she studied him a beat before she smiled and nodded, and before she knew it they were just out of sight around the corner behind a group of trees.

 

Dany and Tyrion shared a look before stepping into the pathway. There in the distance, with his hands collected in front of him, stood her husband, her king, before the creeping face of the heart tree and Ghost sitting just off to the side. He was mostly a black figure against the white of the heart tree, but the lanterns that shrouded the area cast a soft yellow among the turning faces. Immediately Jon felt his knees grow weak at the sight of her even from afar, already finding himself incapable of restraining his emotions. 

 

She never tore her eyes away from his, her teeth clamping on her inner, inside portion of her bottom lip to stop her chin from trembling and keep her tears at bay. With Tyrion’s arm linked with hers, her other one reached down to gently hold onto his, trying to level her breathing. After what felt like a fortnight, they were finally within arms length, and each of them shared unrestrained smiles. Ser Davos turned his eyes onto Tyrion.

 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Davos began.

 

“Daenerys, of House Targaryen, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Tyrion said, and Dany was envious of his breezy exchange in the midst of her palpitating heart.

 

Jon took a step forward until he was standing directly before her, never removing his eyes from hers, dark yet soft. Dany swallowed. “Jon Snow, of Houses Stark and Targaryen. Who gives her?”

 

“Tyrion, of House Lannister, or what remains of it...and Hand to the Queen,” Tyrion responded, uncertain chuckles filling the crowd at his slightly morbid addition.

 

“Your Grace, Queen Daenerys, do you take this man?” Davos chimed next.

 

As short as her dialogue was, she was afraid Jon’s gaze would make her swallow her words whole. “I take this man.”

 

Cheers and claps erupted and Jon didn’t waste another beat before he pulled her against him for a full kiss, no longer required to shelter their affection for one another. Her hand wrapped behind his neck and she pressed him even closer, her heart soaring at the realization that they were alive, wed, and  _ happy _ .

 

The great hall began to fill with people buzzing and maids bringing dishes full of food and drinks alike, and Dany and Jon were stopped by countless of them for embraces and congratulations. Drinks were half thrown into Jon’s hands, and as they slowly made their way through the crowd, he turned to find his bride and waited for her to catch up with him, outstretching his hand as she happily took it and followed with him to their head table. 

 

While they had a moment away from prying ears, he leaned in close to her ear to be heard above the noise level, and her skin turned to gooseflesh when his beard tickled her skin. “You’re so beautiful,” he gushed, placing a kiss at her temple and pulled out their respective chairs, the smile on her face now a permanent expression. As they sat, plates full of various meats, cheeses, fruits, and seasoned vegetables were brought before them. They were soon joined by Arya, Sansa, Tyrion, and Grey Worm who flanked each side of them.

 

The feast began and the hum of the room quieted further as mouths and bellies filled, but grew increasingly rambunctious as meads and wine were drunk. When Dany and Jon had finished, they sat together, Dany linking her hand with Jon’s between their seats and they watched with great amusement at the clamor of their guests. Jon took a long swig of his mead and they leaned in toward one another, chatting about this and that, Dany questioning who all the different Houses were and their lords, and everyone became caught up in their own conversations, laughing more freely than they had in many moons. Most had gone without armor, a new custom as the world stood in a tranquil balance for the time being.

 

Dany sipped at a non-alcoholic cider which was reminiscent of cinnamon and apple, sighing contentedly. A hand playing gently in her hair made her look over to see Jon admiring the roses that had been braided in, and she smiled sweetly at him, and before he could lean in to kiss her, Sansa stood and waited for all to come to a silence before she spoke.

 

“A toast to the bride and groom and the future monarchy,” she called into the crowd, goblets raising and met with thirsty lips. She turned to face them, their attention on her. “The relationship between the north and the capital has always been one full of resistance and resentment. It’s why we fought so long to regain our independence. Many of our own died there.”

 

The only sound was a rogue utensil or creak of a chair, and Sansa went on. “With the promise of allies, Queen Daenerys and King Jon would come to grant the north what it desired most, and here we sit today. But we’ve been through one of the most grueling, arduous wars that the seven kingdoms has ever seen in its history. We lost a great deal of loved ones along the way, but the good conquered in the end.”

 

Dany and Jon smiled pleasantly, glancing toward the crowd momentarily. “When I came back home to give our brother a proper burial, to rest beside his family, a realization occurred to as well as many of you all here today. Our resources had been nearly drained, and still struggle to be what it should be. The northern population has diminished to frightening low numbers, and it would take years to even be comfortable again.”

 

Sansa turned to look directly at Dany and Jon now. “The northern lords, and myself, have met over countless councils since I returned, and we came to the conclusion that the north would only suffer without the support of the other six kingdoms. Supply and demand are too imbalanced, and I fear we would starve before we found our footing again. So, we would like to propose that you will allow the north to remain as it is now, to thrive under Targaryen rule and to restore its former greatness.”

 

They gawked at Sansa as if she had suddenly begun speaking an unknown language, until Jon broke away and looked to Dany, who sat stunned in her seat. She wanted to do nothing less than burst into tears, as she had done so many times recently, but rather she straightened herself and looked out at the faces awaiting their decision.

 

She cleared her throat. “And you are all in favor of this? Despite...past qualms?” Without hesitation, she received nods from the lords of the noble houses and verbal approval from the small folk.

 

Lord Glover, one of the more hardened northern lords, stood from his chair off to their right. “Lady Sansa speaks truthfully; we treated you unjustly, Your Grace, and we paid for it with many lives. The idea of independence has long been sought, even among Robb Stark’s reign, and though I would love to be alive to see it that way once again, we’ve come to recognize it’s not practical. That, and we had no right to treat you as harshly as we did, as all of us would have died the night the dead descended on us here. Lady Sansa has shared many kind words in your regard, educated us on your deeds to our ignorance, and we’re in agreement that we wish to see your legacy live on. And, nonetheless, with our king to be at your side. He will make a fine king, I can promise you that.”

 

Dany nodded graciously toward him and he sat back down, pivoting her head to look to Jon. She knew what his response would be, and his slight nod prompted her to go on while she scanned the entirety of the room. “It would be an honor to see that the northernmost kingdoms rebuild their foundations once more, and we pledge to see that it is done so respectfully.”

 

Again, the sound of chants and cheers intermingled bounced off the walls, and Dany, Jon and Sansa all shared a look of appreciation before the room simmered and they all returned to their chatter. After some time of calm, they took to the floor to visit each table, speaking with both lords and ladies and small folk, becoming familiar with their utmost desires and hopes for the recovery of their homeland. At some point Jon and Dany had separated as they took to each side of the room, filing down the middle, and the environment grew warmer in both temperature and love.

 

Once the feasting was complete and dishes were being cleared away, a small group of musicians collaborated against the back wall and a jolly tune began. Never had Dany seen such enthusiasm to dance, except perhaps to the drum of the bizarre Dothraki wedding traditions, but it amused her greatly as drunken bodies were being twisted and jerking in unnatural ways. A drunken, rugged northern man who abandoned all manners grabbed Dany’s hand and pulled her most unwillingly onto the floor, and she couldn’t help but throw her head back into a fit of giggles as he bounced up and down before her enthusiastically to the joyful rhythm of the drum, joining him only as minimally as possible.

 

More and more people crowded around them and raucous laughs permeated the hall at the scene before them, causing Jon to turn and make headway through the thick of the crowd, a wide grin spreading across his face at the obscene image. The northern man twirled Dany rather clumsily, and as Arya watched with hilarity beside him, he began to move forward.

 

“I think I need to save her,” he noted with humor, stepping between bodies until he was able to coax the northern man onto a different unsuspecting victim, his arm wrapped protectively around Dany’s waist.

 

“I think I nearly lost my dinner,” she breathed, and he chuckled, collecting his hands around to her back, hers coming to lay on either of his shoulders. They were the only pair on the floor not to be dancing to the appropriate tempo, and as they turned to find their table once more, Sansa grabbed Jon’s arm and brought them safely out of the increasingly wild crowd to a less populated corner where she could be heard.

 

“The Godswood is ready when you are; I’d suggest sooner than later if you don’t want to be stripped of your clothes for all to see,” she said teasingly, and Jon thanked her before he took Dany’s hand once more and ducked them out of the great hall. The slight buzz of his mead became more apparent in the cooler air of the outside grounds, though the chill was far more mild than it had been months ago.

 

“What’s in the Godswood?” Dany inquired, arching an eyebrow at Jon’s sly smile.

 

“You’ll see,” he promised, and she walked with him quietly, her mind racing with ideas, but none came to her. When they came upon the gate to the Godswood, she noticed that two guards had been stationed at both sides, they crossed the threshhold and the gates closed behind them. She looked over her shoulder to confirm as much, and Jon’s face was still unreadable.

 

But then they walked further and further and a radiant glow reached her eyes well before they reached the heart tree, but when they did, she had to stop to absorb it all. The lanterns that had once been hung along the path to the ceremony had since been hung with care all along the white branches, casting the weirwood leaves in a brilliant red. Several piles of neatly stacked logs had been lit for warmth, and a great tent had been pitched; canvas walls covered with various animal pelts, and a steaming hot spring not far behind it.

 

“Do you like it?” He asked after allowing her time to digest it.

 

She looked at him, clearly stunned. “This is your doing?”

 

He made a gesture with his head, looking around. “My idea.”

 

“You’ve made a fool of me, Jon Snow. You’ve spoiled me with surprises and yet I have nothing to give you.”

 

“Nonsense,” he said matter-of-factly, walking over to her now. “You’ve given me you, and her,” his hand gently glazed over the side of her belly, and her breath trapped in her throat at his proximity.

 

Without further delay, she stepped up onto her toes to kiss him passionately, the force of her making him stumble backward a little, and he drew her in close against him while her hands grasped tightly onto his gambeson. Their fervor didn’t go amiss, their mouths pushing hungrily into each other, acting as though one day spent apart nearly killed them. In one smooth motion Jon hitched her legs up around his waist, breaking away only to be sure he didn’t walk them straight in a spring, then put her back onto her feet and picked up where he last left off, his teeth tugging on her upper lip. Her hand traveled up along his chest and over his shoulder, behind his head until she was able to free his luscious curls from its band, sinking her hands into their plushness. 

 

He pressed her flush against him, tongues grazing, uncaring that the obvious developed hardness between his thighs could be felt through the layers, bucking his hips into her in response to the blood that coursed through it.

 

They parted in order to figure out each others new fastenings, though Jon’s was less complicated to disassemble. Dany unlatched his belt, was rid of both his and her cloak before he could reciprocate, her intensity only fueling his raging fire.

 

“I don’t want to rip your dress. Well, I do, but…” he trailed off, and she grinned in response, rotating to face her back toward him, revealing a long line of clasps along her spine. “Gods...my first decree as king will be that you can no longer wear anything that takes me more than three seconds to remove.”

 

She laughed in response to his jest while his hands worked desperately to loosen the gown, and she reached around her head to gingerly remove the delicate roses, a special effort made so as to not break them. Briefly she brought them over to tuck safely just inside the tent, then returned to Jon. As he moved down, a V-shape opened along her back as the clasps unhinged, and the tickle and brushing of his beard along her bare flesh as he kissed along her made her sigh longingly, closing her eyes. As he reached the small of her back and completed his task, he moved his hands softly into the garment, running along her exposed back, then over her ribcage, her breathing becoming more and more shallow the further he dove.

 

They snaked around the front, his thumbs only tracing the curvature beneath her breasts, then slid down along her torso, abdomen, and one hand reached before the other until they cupped over her warm and sensitive bud, throwing her head back into his shoulder as his fingers glided into her folds. He growled in response to her whimper when he found she had been sodden and ready for him, his other hand digging into the side of her hips greedily while her mouth parted open into the night air, and he nipped at her jaw as he smoothly slid two fingers inside of her, and her fingers dug into the back of his neck, her back arching while he probed her in a slow, vexing rhythm, his thumb massaging her bud, clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt from the pressure of his cock begging for relief.

 

Dany tore his hand away suddenly, and just as hastily went about the process of shedding his layers, panting from her arousal in the process. With some care of not tearing Dany’s dress, they stood bare in front of each others gaze, coming together once more, frantic and an unfulfilled appetite, hands exploring each others bodies as if they’d never been acquainted before.

 

Before long, he was guiding her into the hot springs, and as was usual, the scorching heat didn’t faze Dany even slightly, but Jon took long to adapt much to their dismay. It was even hotter than Dany’s baths, and he was certain his flesh would melt right off his bones before they were done.

 

Once he was waist-deep, Dany pulled his hand until he practically crashed into her, smashing her mouth against his, plunging her tongue into his. She winced into his mouth when his cock came to rest the in crease of her thigh and pelvis, pressing herself into him and envoking a sharp groan from his chest. Her hand sunk into the water and teasingly rubbed along his length, a hiss sounding from his teeth, his jaw slackening while she kept up a steady tempo, gradually adding more pressure as her fingers wrapped around the hot flesh. His hands gripped firmly in her hair but loosened when he thought he pulled too hard, but it only made her grip tighten on him, and his hung his head and took a small bit of the curvature of her shoulder between his teeth, his shoulders angling backward as she picked up her speed.

 

Then she perched up on her toes, propping her leg up high against his side, and used her hand to guide him until he was probing her entrance, and the sensation drove him blindingly mad, heaving his hips forward until he lunged the head of his cock into her. A loud gasp rasped through her lips, and he pinned her firmly against the wall of the spring, the level at which the ground met her back near perfect to his advantage. Normally he would have worried over the cold of the air, but the heat they exchanged kept them warm. With every long thrust he panted into her mouth, and she whimpered in response, her fingers digging firmly into the muscled flesh of his back while he held her close along her plush arse.

 

Steady and persistent, he freed the hand along her back to drag around her ribs, then fit his palms against her lavish breast, and she broke away momentarily, biting on her lip before she pushed her top half against him. Her rounded breasts pressed into his chest and he secured her upright with both hands now, their foreheads together as she wound her arms around his shoulders and pulled herself up and lowered herself onto him, his breath suspended as he bit onto her lip with a little more force than intended, then was quick to lick along the tiny knick before collecting her mouth in his.

 

The bottom of the spring was soft and Jon grew internally frustrated that it interfered with his  act, his feet sinking unsteadily or stepping onto uneven lumps, so he carried her out while never breaking away from her. The absence of the hot liquid of the water almost stung against their skin, and they were grateful that the winds had been lacking. He ducked them into the canvas tent, pleased to find that the ground had been covered in countless layers of wool and furs, and he laid her down gently before temporarily detaching himself from her so that he could properly fasten the ropes to the entrance. “Stay,” he demanded playfully, kissing her forehead before turning around to tie the flapping canvas doors together.

 

Dany sat up on her elbows, her eyes traveling leisurely along the sculpted work of his body, taking extra care to admire his rear and then the shifting of his back muscles while his hands worked away to enclose their makeshift chambers. It was enough to stir her craving, her thoughts transitioning to the images of how his muscles must contract when he made love to her.

 

A mischievous smile crossed her lips and she crawled over behind him, lowering her head to kiss each arse cheek, her petite hands gripping around his waist as her lips trailed upward. Jon’s hands began to fumble toward the end of the rope, cursing under his breath that it had to be so complicated, but wanting to preserve the heat of their quarters. Dany proved a pleasant distraction albeit an unhelpful one, her arms winding around his torso as she pressed herself against his back, resting her cheek between his shoulders as she waited more patiently than he could manage himself.

 

Finally, not a hair of a second was wasted as he spun around, one arm wrapping tightly around her while he lunged them forward onto the thickness of their bed, and his mouth was all over her. She was unable to hold back her fit of uncontrollable giggles at his ambition, but her laughter gradually died off the lower his bearded chin dropped, tickling her stomach until her skin crawled. He placed a tender kiss on the rise of her belly, which protruded further as she lay on her back, then when his hands smoothed themselves along her inner thighs, she knew what was to come, and already she subconsciously began to wiggle at just the thought of it.

 

There had been no build-up as Jon enclosed his soft lips around her bundle of flesh, using gentle suction and eliciting her hips to surge, but he pressed her down with his hands, and when he knew she would behave, trailed his tongue against the outer, sultry flesh of her entrance all the way up to her bud. The sounds of satisfying agony erupting from her mouth made him work more thoroughly, and he breathed in a sweet scent of a perfume of some type, and somehow that ignited a newfound arousal than was already inundating him. She parted her legs further for him, her feet trying to find a steady grip at his sides but with every plunge of his tongue within her walls was drawing every ounce of strength from her.

 

She threw her hands over her head, her fingers entangling in her faltering concentration to not let herself release, but he knew his way around her, the exact movements and points of pressure that turned her upside down. When he gathered that she was too close, he crawled back up to her after wiping his face clean with a quick swipe of a blanket nearby, allowing himself the pleasure of absorbing her labored expression while she practiced breathing with quivering breaths. But he hadn’t been done with her, enclosing his mouth around hers once more, and a relieved moan from her fell into his mouth as she began to come down from his teasing.

 

He captured a firm hold on her arms suspended above her head, her eyes parting only slightly to read his face as he gazed at her in return. He reached down to grab her leg and propped it over his shoulder, and  moved closer until the head of his cock just kissed at her entrance. Her lips parted in anticipation, but instead his hand moved from her leg to himself, and in a tantalizing, cruel, slow rhythm, circulated the tip of his cock along her slick opening, but never pushed in.

 

“ _ Jon _ …” she breathed heavily, and had he not the grip on her that he did his knees would have buckled, his teeth clamping onto his bottom lip and his eyes squeezing shut when she replaced his hand with hers, and he was relieved to have more support to prevent his collapse. Her body shuddered below him and with every gyration she stroked him from root to tip. He was quickly becoming sore with the desperate need to be liberated, his head dropping to pant heavily into the dampening skin of her neck, dropping his mouth to fasten his teeth into her shoulder, exchanging various animalistic sounds into each others’ ears.

 

He felt that Dany was better at playing this game than he was, somehow able to restrain herself despite the lucidity he himself could barely control. With a slight raise of her pelvis, she held herself steady and in conjunction with his easy heaves, urged him further and further in, the drawn out process almost shattering them both in unison, Jon released his hold on her to hold himself up on his elbows, their abdomens grazing each time he pressed deeper within her warm mold.

 

After a few more seconds he couldn’t handle it any longer, knowing that one of them was going to have to give in, and happily volunteered himself as he drove his cock deep until their skin was flush, and their kisses grew sloppy and sensuous while their bodies moved in sync and only short moments after he elevated his pace, his head fell into her neck once more with a vibrating growl that reverberated in her own chest, and she leaned into him as her peak chased his, less caring that her cries may be heard over the castle ground. 

 

Jon gave in and laid himself on top of her, shifting his weight away from her womb, and for a long time they went unmoving except as their chests rose and fell at first with great force, and then graduated into easier, quieter sighs. He dismounted off of her fully and laid on his side to see her, strands of her hair having become loosened and messy beneath her head. When she found the will, she turned as well, her fingers combing away the stray curls that stuck to his forehead.

Jon used his legs to hike up the thick furs beneath them, shifting to loosen them and brought them over the both of them, securing the warmth they shared. Somehow the heat had stayed level within their small lodging, and he inched closer to Dany until they became ensnared amidst one another. Dany reached her hands behind her head to loosen the pins that held her braids together, but both her exertion as well as the snags made it impossible, so Jon sat her up and he sat behind her, careful not to pull on any taut strands.

 

Dany brought her knees to her chin and rested it there, her arms wrapping tightly around them while she closed her eyes at the gentle rugs and the soft brushes of his hands against her head and upper back. She had been thankful that she hadn’t gone with too intricate of a design as the strands loosened and the clasps were removed, and then he gingerly combed his fingers through the small snarls that had formed. With each long lock, he smoothed them down her back, purposefully glazing the back of his hands down the length of her back as he did so. Gooseflesh erupted on her skin, and he silently smirked, working through every tress of hair until it was smoothed and disentangled, then smoothed his hand and gently dusted the hair over her shoulders while he lowered his lips to her skin, kissing delicately in no particular pattern. He linked his arms from behind around her torso, and she leaned back into him until they were laying, the covers covering up to above her breasts and pinned at Jon’s side to avoid any gaps.

 

Her head lay on his shoulder, and his face against her temple while her thumb idly rubbed his hand beneath hers. “Did you enjoy your day?” He asked, his voice hoarse in its absence.

 

She smiled widely, tilted her face up to see him, then pulled his lips to hers, his sigh tickling her cheeks. “It was a dream.”

 

Smiling against her lips, he kissed her once more before they settled further into the plush bed, their eyes falling heavy at the ebbing of the sound of nature just outside their walls. The slightly bubbling, steaming heat of the springs, the dancing sway of the light breeze among the heart tree’s leaves, and the distant howls of wild wolves lulled them into a deep, untroubled, peaceful rest.

  
  



	21. Part XXI - Long May They Reign

Dany shivered slightly as her body acknowledged the brisk morning air, and she vaguely felt a warm cover being lifted over her shoulders and a body pressed behind her. An arm snaked over her waist and the brushing tickle of Jon’s beard burrowing into her neck elicited a lazy smile on her lips, her hand smoothing over his near her navel. Her eyes slowly blinked open in the muted light of their tent, a soft orange glow peeking in at their feet where the slits of the entrance told her dawn was arising. She then realized that the sun had finally made its first appearance in months, and it warmed her in the chill.

 

When she rolled onto her back, she was greeted by Jon’s soft, smiling grey eyes, fresh from his own waking, and she turned to face him while he gathered her close. He freed one hand to comb away some loosened strands of her hair away from her face, and her fingertips smoothed over the striations of his bicep as he did so.

 

“Sleep well?” He asked, his voice rocky.

 

She smiled and nodded, then shifted so that she could look up to see his face better. “And you?”

 

A small laugh breathed through his nose and his eyebrows lifted slightly. “I can’t recall the last time I slept like that.”

 

Dany’s expression transitioned into something slightly provoking, and her hand pushed on his hardened chest until he lay flat on his back, her leg swinging over to straddle him while she flattened herself on top of him. His abdominal muscles twitched at the sudden change, his jaw tightening momentarily. She slid herself up further so that she was level with his face, her hands at either side of his head and fiddling with his locksm she dipped her head down to kiss him gingerly. He brought one of his knees up and held her at her sides, happily reciprocating, inhaling the faint scent of the oils left on her skin mixed with the morning husk of the outdoors.

 

She broke the kiss but kept her face close to his. “Perhaps I wore you out,” she suggested quietly, doing her best to suppress a grin.

 

Idly he ran his hands all along her sides to her shoulders and down, and his eyes hardened into that of a playful glower in response to her words. “Is that what you think?” His eyes traveled down to study her lush lips, then lifted his head slightly to capture it between his teeth, his hands locking themselves around her hips.

 

She wrapped her arms around his head and escaped his capture, grinning like a fool and falling into a fit of giggles when he gently forced her head down so that he could plant several sloppy kisses all along her face. Her eyes squeezed closed and she erupted into a small squeal until he flipped them so that now she lay beneath him, trapped beneath his weight as the coarseness of the whiskers of his beard tickled down her neck and shoulder. He sat up onto his knees then, and the sudden rush of cold made her quiver again, her laugh fading into a deep sigh now that she found her breath again.

 

Jon gazed upon her, his loosened curls a mop around his head and face, and she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as his eyes traveled the length of her bare body. When his attention landed on her belly, he lowered himself to kiss the small swell, his hands cradling it at its sides as he did so. Dany’s eyes softened and all trace of her laughter left her while she watched him wonder at the tiny human developing just beneath her skin, and she unexpectedly found that tears were grazing the sides of her temples.

 

Jon stayed there a few moments before her dragged his lips upward along the center of her, stopping just before her face when he noticed the damp in her eyes. A frown of worry creased at his brow, though she didn’t look sad to him. “Is something the matter?”  
  


She shook her head and ran her fingers along either side of his beard, her thumbs tracing over his cheekbones. “Not really. I suppose I feel that this is some dream that I’m meant to wake from. I don’t know when I last felt this happy. Somehow it feels selfish to feel that way.”

 

A slow smile spread along his mouth, his brows arched in slight concern. Even months later, the consequence of war lingered, though it eased with every passing day and the more they kept themselves busy and would begin to rebuild the world piece by piece. “Aye. Me as well.”

 

He moved upward and gently grazed his thumbs at the corners of her eyes to wipe away their tears, then lowered his head to kiss her tenderly. Her hand moved so that her fingers could play with his curls, their kisses coming slow and easy, lingering and delicate. Jon wanted nothing more than to assure her that this was her new reality, and that all she had strived for, spilled her blood and tears for, was going to materialize. For him, his objective had been complete with the Night King and his army now extinct, and as an added benefit he was wed and would become a father in a few months time. It was as if they both, simultaneously, were being gifted with these treasures in exchange for their sacrifices, though Jon was unsure how much weight he could place into that sort of faith. Most times he felt he had just been lucky as he had most of his life raised as a bastard boy. If luck was ever on his side, he never felt it was a gift from the gods, but only that he happened upon it at the right time.

 

Dany pulled him in deeper, breaking him free of his thoughts, her lips parting further to allow his tongue to swipe along hers, and he could feel the organ between his legs hardening exponentially as she shifted beneath him in response. A small, almost inaudible whimper escaped her when his cock lengthened along her waist, and he released a hand from her head to run it down the length of her, causing her to squirm at his descent. He pressed his mouth ever closer, drawing in her lip and sucking on it briefly as his hand cupped over her center and the thatch of hair that lay there, and her hips swayed at his touch.

 

His fingers trailed down to glide along her inner folds until they found her warmth, dampening and ripening, and her mouth fell open into a shuttering gasp when he slowly but steadily drove two fingers within her, her back arching subconsciously into him. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, tenderly nipping at the skin as he slowly massaged her inner walls in shallow circles, then extracted his fingers to glide over her until he smoothed over her bundle of nerves. Her legs jerked in response and she brought her legs up, raising her lips into his hand to seek more relief as he pressed the flat of his thumb against her and dipped his fingers back down to teasingly caress her opening, but remained there as she began to nearly spasm below him.

 

A high-pitched moan sounded from her throat and he lifted his head to see her face strained in a pleasant agony, and he continued his efforts, her mouth opening wide but unable to capture a breath as it collected in her chest. He quickened his pace, and when she uttered his name, he caught it in his mouth, their kisses growing messy and feverish with each of his ministrations. Before long, he felt her hand close around his cock, and he gasped into her mouth, feeling as though he could lose himself before she even made her first stroke.

 

Slowly her hand made work of him, and he dutifully echoed her rhythm with his own hand, but began to falter as she stroked him closer to his head and in a faster fashion. A growl vibrated from his chest, and then he replaced his hand with his heated cock, pressing it along her sex as she parted her legs further for him. He heaved the length of his cock along her wet center in long strokes, the sensation heightening their awakening minds. With another pull back, he slowed his tempo and gently pushed himself within her, sharing needy groans against each others mouths as he inched himself further within her passage. His hand flattened upon her pearl in circular motions, adding more and more pressure with each undulation, and Dany’s skin broke into a cold sweat with her back curving into him. She dug her fingertips into his shoulders, a desperate hand exploring all of his sculpted body while she allowed him to do as he pleased with hers.

 

With both of her legs sliding up, she threw her head back and bit hard on her lower lip, and as she collected her breath Jon knew that she was close, and he pumped in quicker, shorter spurts, huffing heavily into her neck. Within a few more seconds she cried into the air but cupped her hand over her mouth to mute herself; Jon took notice just as he was ready to spend himself, removing her hand so that he could relish in her gratifying lament and replacing her hand with his mouth as he reached his own culmination, growling heavily against her. She was forced to hold his hips steady, her frazzled nerves unable to accept more pleasure in fear that she would lose all control of her senses. His cock pulsed within her as it spilled, his breath ragged and delayed while his heart pounded through his chest.

 

The heat of their passion quickly replaced the intruding cold when he laid flat upon her, though always careful to avoid pressure on her abdomen. He rested his cheek on her breast bone, her fingers lazily combing through his hair while they caught up to themselves.

 

“Is that how our mornings are going to be from now on?” She breathed quietly, a sly smile on her face while her eyes closed.

 

A small huff of a laugh breathed through his mouth, and he shifted so that he lay beside her on his side, pulling the covers up over her and tucking them beneath her arms. “You’re my queen. If that’s what you wish…”

 

She opened her eyes to find him. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up,” she teased, inciting a look of challenge from him.

 

“Who ravaged whom, just now?” He taunted, a corner of his lips pulling into a half grin.

 

“Only because I let you,” she muttered, pulling him up to her so she could kiss him.

 

Jon returned the gesture, then broke away to catch a glimpse of the sliver of light. “We should probably get inside. We’ll have to start discussing the coronation and the rebuilding of King’s Landing,” he said, gently pulling her up from where she lay. She grumbled, but complied, wishing they could relish in their brief ignorance of the goings-on of the world. They dressed in their discarded clothing from the previous night, and Dany quickly brushed out the tangles of her hair, Jon tying his at the back of his head before he helped her out of the tent.

 

Each of them squinted at the stranger of light peeking through the thickness of the trees, the leftover snow from the season glimmering brilliantly in its wake and the branches dripping to the ground below. They exited the gates and made way into the castle. At this hour, most of the halls had only been populated with maids and servants prepping for the day’s activities, so Jon decided he would properly present to Dany the home that he grew up in. They walked down several dark halls, barely whispering so as not to disturb anyone sleeping, the library, the armory, the kitchens, and then finally, his room.

 

When he pushed open the door, he was surprised to see that the hearth had been alight, forgetting that they would always be so when the grounds were so full. Everything remained just as he had left it, and not a spot of dust could be seen. Dawn cast an enchanting glimmer through the square window, and he closed the door behind him while Dany observed the various scrolls and parchments over his desk. 

 

One in particular she pinched between her fingers, a smile of familiarity upon her face as she turned to face him. “My invitation for you to come to Dragonstone. To bend the knee.”

 

Jon grinned in return, having been taken by how the light of the morning captured the silver of her hair, causing an illusion of fire against her head. A silhouette against the window, the protrusion of her belly was ever clearer to the eye. He walked over to her, hand winding around her waist, lips resting on her forehead. “I’ve not been proud about a lot of decisions I’ve made, but accepting your invitation had to have been the best of them.”

 

Dany let the small parchment roll back onto the desk as she brought her arms around his torso, locking her hands together at his back, and closed her eyes against his chest. It really had only been then that she realized he had been without armor and his weaponry, and had been for some time. The thought eased her in knowing he was accepting peace in his heart, and would hopefully be fulfilled in this way until the end of their days.

 

Gently they swayed to an inaudible song of their own, and his free hand reached down to rest on her belly. He found it almost impossible to resist, as if he needed the constant reassurance that it was real and he wouldn’t wake from a fever dream to find it seeped through his grip. In four moons time they would be holding their daughter in their arms.

 

“I’ve been thinking...what if we moved the capital to Dragonstone?” Dany asked quietly, closing her eyes.

 

Jon pondered the idea. “What would become of King’s Landing?”

 

“We could clean it up and rebuild it as a village. Be rid of the stenches and the crimes as best we can. Shorten the overpopulation by creating more homes,” she suggested. “I’d like to make use of the climate there and plant gardens. It could be a central food source if we grow crops, vegetables, fruit. Blackwater Bay could produce fish. We could make a market of it, allow those who wish to work for a wage to support their families.”

 

Jon’s thumb idly caressed her belly, his eyes fixed on the wood grain along the floor. “I do believe the common folk would welcome that. But it still might be wise to have a middle segway that is easily accessible to come to us to voice their needs and concerns. We could still claim Dragonstone, but rebuild a space for us in King’s Landing as well. It doesn’t have to be what it was; we can make it our own.”

 

The idea brought a smile to her face. “I feel it would be rather vulgar to sit on what I feel is a graveyard, as if the matters of war had never taken place below our feet. Perhaps something more quaint would be more beneficial. It would be a little less taxing, financially, as well.”

 

A small laugh breathed through Jon’s nose. “You’re speaking like a true queen, now.”

 

—-

 

After some time, the Winterfell grounds began to stir as the sun rose a little higher above the horizon. When they gathered in the Great Hall, Dany had announced their tentative agreement to get a feel for the reaction. She knew that the northerners wouldn’t be the richest ears to share it with, given their distaste for the capital and the crown, but it was met with moderate praise, regardless. Gendry would be returning to Storm’s End soon enough, and Arya would be accompanying him in their new betrothal. It had taken Jon by surprise; he never painted his sister as one to be a Lady, but she made Gendry promise that he would find suitable advisers that could substitute for him, as she wanted for them to travel the open seas.

  
  


When they finished their small meeting, Dany and Jon retreated outside to seek Drogon and Rhaegal. They had to make a long trek outside the castle walls when the dragons sounded off above them, coming to land swiftly before them. They each purred at their respective riders, and Jon circled around Rhaegal after giving him his familiar rub of the snout.

 

“He has healed nicely,” Jon noted, his eyes scanning the wing that had been heavily damaged during the war, and the gauges in his neck that were slowly replenishing with new scales.

 

Dany smiled warmly, giggling when Drogon lowered his massive head to be level with her belly. Then she frowned suddenly. “Rhaella won’t have a dragon to call her own. Not unless Drogon or Rhaegal accept her after our deaths.”

 

Jon gave her a look; it sounded like something he would say, grim as it was. “Do dragons not breed?”

 

“They do. I’m afraid mine don’t, or so it would seem.”

 

Returning his attention back to Rhaegal, he walked back to his front. “There’s still a lot of time left. Maybe they’ll surprise us.”

 

“Maybe,” she echoed quietly. 

 

—-

 

When afternoon came, Dany and Jon went their separate ways for a time. Dany found Tyrion conversing with Davos, and she paused in fear she would be interrupting them as they sat before the hearth. Davos bowed before her, then threw his hands up when it seemed she would turn away.

 

“No worries, Your Grace, I was only on my way to find your husband. Gods, that doesn’t sound right. But it is, isn’t it?” He chuckled and she grinned at him as he passed.

 

Tyrion turned in his seat and gestured for Dany to sit in the chair before him. She sat herself on the edge, flattening her skirt. “So,” he began, the lilt in his voice returning after weeks of silent solitude. “It seems that everyone is starting to move on.”

 

Dany watched him a minute before speaking. “How would you wish to move on, Lord Tyrion?”

 

He made a gesture with his head that suggested he hadn’t thought much about it. “In a cesspool of wine. I feel that is most appropriate.”

 

Narrowing her eyes at him, Dany arched an eyebrow. “What if I were to ask you to live out the rest of your days as Hand of the queen and king?”

 

His face was unreadable, but his focus was on her. “Do you feel I would be sufficient for the task? I’m not so sure you need a Hand, what with Jon at your side now. And what of Ser Davos? Surely he would like a part to play.”

 

“Jon tells me he intends to return home to his family. He has been absent for years. It never hurts to have a third set of ears. What about when Jon and I bicker? Someone needs to keep us in check when we can’t do that ourselves.”

 

A small laugh moved Tyrion’s small body and his eyes found the modest hearth. “True. And maintaining peace in seven kingdoms will not be any easier with all of the sleepless nights you have ahead of you,” he noted, head nodding in the direction of her stomach.

 

A little smile played on her lips when she realized she was winning him over. “And what about this: I would grant you lordship over Casterly Rock. To do as you please with, but it is yours.”

 

It seemed that all of this was overwhelming him, Dany noticed. “Your Grace, you spoil me. I’m not sure what I have done to deserve even a fraction of any of what you offer.”

 

“You helped me a great deal, and you were a large component as to how I got to be where I did. We have all made mistakes, Lord Tyrion, no doubt. But here _we_ sit.”

 

A small, slow nod bobbed his head and he drew in a deep breath. “Well, if that is what you wish, then I accept it. I do not know what I will do with Casterly Rock; if I gifted it to myself I might just fix it into a brothel.”

 

Another look from Dany had him returning a similar one to her. “You know that I’m joking. Sort of. But, in all honesty, I would be...beyond honored and moved to stay by your side, as long as our king agrees to it as well.”

 

A warm, wide smile stretched her lips then. “He will.”

 

—-

 

When Winterfell had settled down, and the common folk had returned to their respective towns, Dany and Jon took advantage of what time they had left in the North to assess Winterfell’s repairs. Linked arm-in-arm, they observed that The Great Keep and Library Tower were the two main structures in need of reconstruction; when Jon saw just how demolished the library had become, he wondered how Ser Davos had escaped with only his leg wound. The roof had collapsed in on itself in a heap of rubble in the center, and its eastern wall was entirely missing. Men were hard at work collecting what masonry they could refine and reuse, and tossing the smaller bits into a barrel to be disposed of. Just as they were crossing the courtyard, Sansa’s voice called for Jon behind them.

 

“A raven from Castle Black,” she said, holding out the parchment for him to take.

 

Without breaking away from Dany, he smoothed his hand along its curl, and a smirk slowly pulled one corner of his lip. “Tormund. He’s congratulated us on our wedding and for ‘putting a little dragonwolf in the queen’s womb’,” he shook his head, but it still elicited small chuckles from the ladies. “He also wishes for us to meet him at Castle Black so that he can show the queen the true north, before Rhaella is born.”

 

“Rhaella?” Sansa broke into a grin, her eyes alight. 

 

Dany and Jon looked up at her, their own smiles reaching their eyes. “After my mother, who died on her birthing bed,” Dany explained softly.

 

“It’s a beautiful name. She will be a beautiful girl,” Sansa gushed, then looked to Jon once more. “Will you accept his invitation? It may be your last chance to experience the bone-chill of the north, at least for some time.”

 

Jon hesitated, considered Dany, and began to refuse until Dany said, “You should go. With Tyrion staying his position as our Hand, we can begin work on King’s Landing, and we will meet soon after for the coronation.”

 

Jon grew visibly uncomfortable at the thought. “I don’t think I should leave you, not now,” he nodded toward her growing belly.

 

She gave him a pleasant smile. “It will be alright. I’ll only be considerably larger next you see me.”

 

The thought of being apart for so long made him uneasy; they had finally overcome all of their obstacles and obtained all they ever wanted, and he wanted nothing less than to soak up every second of post-war life with his wife. But each time he buffered, her fingers gently clamped harder on his arm to reassure him that she would be fine.

 

“One the baby is here, it won’t be easy to find time for only ourselves. And with Tormund returning to Hardhome, it will be more difficult for you both to see one another. He was a faithful friend to you, and you to him...go and ruffle your feathers a bit,” Dany urged earnestly.

 

At some point he agreed to do as she requested, a little begrudgingly, but he couldn’t deny the small part of him was eager to see Tormund and what remained of the free folk once more. It would be his final, small venture before he would adopt his duties as King, a role he was far more enticed in embracing knowing he would share it with Dany.  
  
—-  
  
Two mornings passed before preparations were complete for Dany to travel first to Dragonstone before the capital, and Tyrion would sail straight for King’s Landing, and Jon to the north. Privately, they shared a long, unending embrace, with Jon planting infinite kisses all over her face while he had her. The sounds of a stable boy bringing their horses around made them reluctantly break away, and Jon saw them off at the gate where Drogon and Rhaegal flew freely above them, a newfound indulgence that they could wander as much of the country as pleased them. Tyrion and a handful of northern guards who volunteered themselves would see Tyrion safely to White Harbor, and he bid his farewell until next time. Drogon landed, the earth below him quaking from his weight, and Dany found her seat, shared one last look with Jon before flying off. Jon watched until he could no longer see the dragons in the clouds, then returned to pack for his travels north.

 

Tyrion would be assisting them in contracting laborers to begin the reformation of the capital as well as finding a trusted wet nurse for Rhaella. Additionally, they would be in need of the proper staff from maids to kitchen cooks. Dany insisted that their staff be treated as fairly as any guest that would stay at Dragonstone, and they would each have proper chambers and essentials that they needed to feel comfortable in their new living quarters in addition to exemplary wages. Tyrion returned to the capital in search of workers, knowing that he would likely have better success plucking willing and skilled common folk who wished for a better life, working under the new King and Queen. He also wished to give a visual demonstration of what Dany and Jon were requesting King’s Landing to become.

 

—-

 

Two moons passed before their coronation week arrived. Tyrion had written to Jon, though he had realized the nearest ravenry to Hardhome was at Castle Black, and Jon had not been there in weeks. He silently cursed himself, remembering that the Wall was all but abandoned, so in haste he wrote to Dany at Dragonstone, urging - or more like begging - her to send Rhaegal to collect her King if she wished for him to be brought into the city on time. If his first misstep as their Hand was to be that the King missed his own swearing in, he feared he may as well see himself to the lonely quarters of the Wall before Dany needed to make the order herself.

 

In their exchanges, he came to learn that Grey Worm had deployed Missandei’s body back to Naath, and was welcomed onto their land once they understood that he was of no threat to them. He stayed there for much of the time since he had departed Dany’s service only to surprise her with his arrival at Dragonstone in hopes that she would still have a place there. He expressed to her that he felt it would be a dishonor to Missandei if he did not live out the remainder of his days beside the queen they fought and allied for for so long, and this way, he had a friend he could share memories of his love of Missandei with when they needed to.

 

Ghost had warmed to Tyrion, having traveled by ship per Jon’s wishes, though he was almost certain the wolf didn’t care for the milder climate. At the very least, his food supply consisted of various types of animals that weren’t so easily found in the north. Rare, wild cattle and chickens, usually ones who weren’t fit for slaughter and were then released into the open lands or escaped themselves; pheasants, elk, and whatever else he muddled up before bringing it back to his new home,

 

Daenerys had arrived two days later, two months larger, and her face radiating with a beautiful glow, but her slight scowl in knowing that Jon still hadn’t arrived did not go amiss. After some time of hearing out her worries and hypothetical scenarios if Jon were late to the ceremony, Tyrion was able to escort her around the city to show her firsthand all that had been complete. She was astonished in what had been accomplished in a relatively short time. The passageways in the capital were wider and less crammed than previously, adorned by endless attached houses that were fully populated by reviving small folk. Flea Bottom was freed from the stench and rats it ensued, and went from a measly site for a bowl of brown to a thriving market. The greenery was not yet to be seen, but would begin to grow in the coming months, and flourish once the weather agreed with the plantings. As they walked further into the center, laborers were hard at work constructing the remaining half of the city, but beyond and centered was a new keep that replaced the Red Keep. It was a little more modest in its grandeur, and didn’t reach for the skies quite as high as its predecessor, but she was pleased with its turnout. A slightly winding staircase with wide steps led up to its entrance, and Tyrion brought the both of them inside for a quick tour to become familiar with its layout.

 

It would still be months until the vision they had was fulfilled, but great progress had been made all the same. When they entered through the tall wood and iron doors, Tyrion gestured for her to step ahead of him into the Throne room. The high, narrow windows cast a brilliant glow of sunlight along the marbled floor from the painted glass. And there, at the end of the hall atop an extensive platform, sat the Iron Throne. It was paired beside an intricately carved high-backed chair made of Ironwood from the Wolfswood of the North. Tyrion had made a specific order that Jon always have a piece of his home to remember by in his time away, and there hadn’t been a better candidate than the wood from the forest in which wolves would sing to the moon. The Stark direwolf sigils were engraved in the center of the top of the back, flanked by various etchings of intricate shapes, and the arm rests were capped with the heads of the direwolf as well. The wall set behind the thrones boasted both the Targaryen and Stark banners, hung from the very top and straight down near the floor.

 

Dany had forgotten how to breathe as she slowly approached the throne, the very symbol of her dreams, sitting just before her. A reality, something she could touch, and not just a vision or a dream as she had once had. When she ascended the stairs, she reached out and let the soft pads of her fingers graze along tis arms, the cool of the melded swords sending a different sort of chill throughout her body. Her eyes trained on each of the blended steel of swords, then drifted over to the seat in which Jon would soon sit. Somehow, when she returned her attention to the throne that was now hers, she felt displeased by it. The appetite to sit on it had diminished, and she wondered if perhaps she was coming down with an illness. But the longer she stared, the more she thought of what it was she sought.

 

“Lord Tyrion,” she called over his shoulder, and he was at her side.

 

“Your Grace?” He noticed her grimace, and he wondered if he had done something wrong once again.

 

“Would it be...ungracious, if I were to make a rather tremendous request?”

 

“You are our queen. Whatever it is, I can manage.”

 

She offered him a friendly smile, then gave the throne a lookover once more. “This seat has caused so much death...has divided far too many families, friends, brothers. Turned what once were decent, good men into power-hungry monsters. Aegon forged it with the swords of his enemies with Balerion’s dragonfire. Now, I wish to be rid of it in the same manner, with Drogon and Rhaegal.”

 

Astonished, Tyrion had to consider what she was asking before he swallowed. “But...where will you sit? Unless you both wish to conceive a new tradition that involves the queen sharing the lap of her king…”

 

“No,” she said, a small smile on her face now. “I’d like one similar to my husband’s. Is that possible?”

 

His eyebrows rose in thought. “We have five days, assuming Jon does indeed make it on time. It will be rather taxing, but perhaps we could extend higher wages to those workers.”

 

“Yes. I would very much like that. We are equals...I’d like for us to be seen as such. This throne feels vulgar now, and makes me look as if my power supercedes Jon’s. We can bring it outside the city into a clearing, and be rid of it when Jon returns.”

 

Tyrion couldn’t resist a smile and a nod. “A very noble and selfless decision, Your Grace, and poetic at that. I will see that it is done promptly.”

 

—-

 

When Jon still hadn’t appeared the following day, Tyrion apologized profusely until his throat felt raw, and he continued to do so until the next evening, to his blessed relief, Drogon cried into the sky as if to announce his brother was nearing. Only, as luck would have it, Day had supped early and then took to Drogon, wishing to get a better overlook of the city and a little beyond to get a clearer image of what else all needed to be fixed. If she was able to manage it, citing a small ache of her lower back, she wanted to speak with nearby civilians, but Tyrion had convinced her to wait until she had a queensguard to escort her. Though the common folk appeared to be on friendly terms with the new monarchy, Tyrion feared that some would still paint the crown as an existential threat to their wellbeing given all of what Cersei’s legacy left behind. Being with child also required extra precaution; Tyrion wouldn’t verbalize what sort of danger she could be put in should she step into the wrong territory, but he needn’t go that far as she agreed to wait without argument.

 

Tyrion left his seat, walking out to the courtyard where Rhaegal made land. He hadn’t quite realized just how large he had grown, although Drogon was near double his size, but Rhaegal had grown exponentially even still. As he grew loser, Rhaegal pressed himself to the ground, and when he lowered his head was when he caught sight of Jon collecting his pack over his shoulders and taking ginger steps to the ground. As Tyrion went to open his mouth to greet his return, a rush of wind swept along his right arm, and the silent being that was Ghost still caught him off guard even in his time caring for the beast. He barreled down the masonry and Jon barely had time to brace himself as the direwolf pounced onto Jon’s chest. Rhaegal protested with a throaty squeal, but took to the skies to join his brother in searching for their next meal.

 

For only a breath it looked as though Jon would hold his ground, but then he fell backward with a grunt, his head cushioned by the pack he carried. Tyrion swore under his breath at the impact; the king was certain to arrive in time for the coronation, but how in seven hells he would explain a cracked skull to the queen, he didn’t wish to think about. Ghost licked Jon’s face clean, a persistent whine sounding from him, and Jon made sure to ruffle his fur all the while trying to remove the beast from caving in his chest.

 

Eventually Ghost relieved himself off of him, and Jon returned to his feet, a smile fresh on his face. “He looks well. Thank you for seeing after him,” he said, his breath still catching up to him.

 

Tyrion made a modest gesture with his hands. “I think he was more seeing after me, to be honest. I’ve been so caught up in money and maps and political matters that he reminded me to eat once in a while. Usually by bringing a dead animal to my feet.” There was a pause when Jon chuckled, and then Jon’s face shifted a bit. Tyrion was happy to know that he could more easily read his expressions, though they mostly remained stone-like and distracted, but it would benefit him as their Hand. “Daenerys should return soon; she wanted an aerial view of the capital so she could be sure I continue to stay busy.” He smiled, then nodded sideways with his head. “Come, I’ll show you to your new bed chambers.”

 

\---

 

Tyrion departed after a maid had a hot bath filled, and Jon stepped into the room with awe in his eyes. It boasted a rustic charm of the north, but still held some intricacies of what he imagined the former King’s Landing interior looked like. The bed was large enough to fit six across, a thick wooden headboard behind lush pillows. The floor was a slightly gritty stone, covered with a rug that covered most of it. He made sure to kick off his boots, not wishing to stain it. He turned on his heel, admiring the high ceilings, the large chest and vanity, the end of the room that rounded at the wall with three windows that arched with it from ceiling to floor. In the evening light the iron tub steamed with fresh water, and he recognized the scent of what he thought was lavender and sandalwood, two perfumes Dany preferred in her own baths. 

 

He shrugged off his pack and shoved it in a corner before loosening his clothes until he was nude, then stepped into the bath. He wondered if Tyrion put a word in to the maid, unbeknownst to him, that he didn’t take his water scalding hot as the queen did, but he was grateful for it anyway. He dunked himself under completely, resurfacing and wiping the water from his face as he grabbed a nearby bristled sponge and scrubbed away at his skin. He looked over to his left side to see the sun was nearly gone for the night, and he began to worry that Dany had yet to return. He hadn’t been entirely thrilled that she was on dragonback this late in the pregnancy, but knew it would fall on deaf ears to try and convince her otherwise.

 

After a few moments of resting with his eyes closed in the warmth of the sudsy water, he heard the turn of the door handle, and the sight of his wife, her two months larger belly, made him grin from ear to ear. 

 

“Dany,” he called gently, and her head whipped up and he thought she might burst into tears. He sat forward and she nearly ran as best she could to him, her chilled hands taking his face in them and smashing her mouth to his. She smelled freshly of the outdoors, and the cold from the skies stayed with her.

 

She broke away but stayed closed, her eyes flitting between each of his as if she didn’t believe he was truly there. “I was sure you wouldn’t have made it in time. I could have killed Tyrion.”

 

Jon backed away a little to give her a proper look-over, dressed in a long gown of a royal blue, her hair braided back into a long tail along her back. “You look beautiful,” he noted, and she straightened herself with a small wince that caught his attention.

 

“I haven’t been feeling very beautiful,” she muttered. “I have all these new aches and pains I never knew existed.” Though her face was a little twisted in discomfort, he couldn’t help but to smirk at how he adored the very thing that was causing her troubles. Her belly had doubled in size since last he saw her, but the rest of her remained mostly the same, her face perhaps a little fuller. Immediately after the war she had refrained from touching food, having been repulsed by the very idea, and he was relieved that she had come around.

 

He had convinced her to soak in a bath of her own; she insisted that she could join him, but he refused to allow her to sit in his dirt and grime he collected while at Hardhome. The free folk all but defied the notion of bathing, and even as a northerner himself he began to feel quite grubby only a few weeks in. He dressed, and a maid emptied and refilled the tub water. When she was gone, Jon assisted Dany in the removal of her gown, acting as a balance for her while he kneeled down to help her feet out of it.

 

Before she could step into the tub, he gently turned her around to face him, his eyes wandering the sight of her. It wasn’t so much with lust, though that was certainly torturing his thoughts, but the image of baby Rhaella sitting just before them in her womb. He allowed his hands to glaze over the sides, and Dany’s cheeks grew pink. Somehow in his absence and in her adjusting body, she grew a little more shy in presenting herself in this way, though she knew most of it was in her own mind as she thought hard of herself; especially with how Jon was making her feel radiant. The soft glint in his eyes, his brows arched in admiration of her, his lips slightly puckered as he caressed along her belly. 

 

Noticing that she began to shiver a little, he helped her into the tub, pulling around a chair to sit beside her. She hummed when the warmth enveloped her, sinking herself in until the tops of her shoulders just barely peeked above the water. Leaning forward, he crossed his arms along the lip of the tub and laid his chin on his arms. Dany combed her fingers through his still-damp hair. “Was Tormund happy to see you?”

 

A smirk pulled at his lips. “He tried convincing me that we should both renounce our titles and stay with the free folk.”

 

A soft laugh sounded from her throat as she sat forward, running a soft sponge down her legs. Jon shifted, retrieving a new cloth, and assisted in reaching her back. “Winterfell was beautiful, but that may be as far north as I can handle.”

 

He guided his hands over her shoulders, watching the suds and bubbles trail down her back, then started on unraveling her braids. She leaned back against the rear of the tub, resting her head on it behind her so that she could look up to see Jon as he concentrated on unbinding her hair. “Did you miss me?”

 

His eyes drifted to hers. “Terribly. To the point where Tormund threatened to have me to himself for one night if it meant I’d stop being so soft for you.”

 

Dany made a face that expressed both disgust, horror, and amusement. “He is a strange man.”

 

“An understatement,” Jon added with a smile. Finally, he unraveled the last of her strands, then combed his fingers through to loosen the thick tresses.

 

“Come here,” Dany demanded softly, her hand reaching behind her head until it found his neck, and pulled him down so that she could kiss him. He complied without hesitation, sharing a tender, long kiss, until she opened her mouth further and prodded his with her tongue. Already his trousers became uncomfortable, grazing his tongue alongside hers, Dany trying to find her footing to push herself up further.

 

Without breaking away, he left his seat and moved around to the side of the tub, helping her up to her feet as he did so. From there he deepened their kiss, cradling her face in his hands while hers found the hem of his tunic and crept her hands beneath it to refresh her memory with every muscle and indentation of his body.

 

The touch of her soft hands made his breath stutter; two months away from her could never happen again. He would be damned if he chose the bitter, icy ground to the warmth and sensation of her beneath his hands. When she reached his shoulders, he brought his arms down as she lifted the fabric over his head, tossing it to the floor as he returned to her lips and he unlaced his trousers in record time.

 

Once discarded, he aided her out of the tub, still refusing to abandon the plush pink lips in his possession, their fervor increasing with every passing second. His hands trailed around her waist, and feeling that it was becoming cold to the touch, he walked them backwards to the bed, holding her securely as he laid her onto the thick warmth of the furs below. She parted her legs as he crawled between them, then lowered himself to share his body heat with her. 

 

Finally he broke away from her, and they exchanged gasps for air, Jon opening his eyes to gaze into her heavy-lidded ones. She rolled them onto their sides, straddling his hips with her legs, and collected his lip between her teeth.

 

“Is this comfortable for you?” He whispered breathlessly, garnering a nod from her as he collected her mouth once more and wrapped an arm around her back and held her as close as he could. Her hips pressed against his, and the contact of her wet sex along his cock caused him to sigh a whimper into her mouth, his hand balling into a fist as the grip of her leg around him propelled her slowly up and down his length.

 

His brow furrowed deeply, meeting her with his own thrusts, moving his hand down to grip her rear and increase pressure. When the head of his cock teased her entrance and glided against and away from it, her mouth fell open with her breath trapped in her throat. Her nerves felt frayed and as if they were on fire, setting the rest of her alight, lifting her knee to allow him even more access. 

 

“Please,” she whimpered, earning a hungry grunt from him at her pleading, and upon his next undulation he buried himself within her, and in unison they shared an elongated, desirous sob. Dany grew numb down to her toes, relaxing her body and allowing him to take control for fear she would conclude prematurely. But with every stroke, and every gasp he fed into her mouth, his fingertips grasped firmly over her arse to initiate more, she thought she might shatter or implode or ignite into flames.

 

He pulled his hips back and reached his hand down until it flattened over the hardening pearl, drawing slow circular gestures that she was sure was going to deem her unconscious. He teased her opening with nearly withdrawing from her, and she could feel the ridge of the head until slowly plunged the length of himself back into her constricting walls, forcing her to bury her face into his neck, her teeth just grazing his skin.

 

Jon panted into the air, then pressed his teeth together firmly as he could feel the tension collecting below his shaft, and Dany nearly writhing beside him was almost enough by itself to drive him over the edge.

 

“Gods, Jon,” she whined. “I don’t...think I can last much longer.” Her words were strung together, and he moved back and nudged her face toward him with his nose, kissing her hard while he escalated his rhythm, and as he felt her begin to tremble below him, he took that as his signal to let himself peak. It only took one more heave and she began to cry into his mouth, and she drove herself down onto his cock, accelerating his culmination as he spent inside of her, losing almost all control of his muscles as his head dropped and he groaned against her shoulder. Their movements slowed until every bit of them was spent, and the moment it came to a halt, their bodies grew limp and boneless.

\---

  
As they lay together post love-making, Dany entangled her fingers with his and held them up to watch them as she made him tell her every detail of his visit north. It had mostly consisted of hiking up perilous mountains, which Dany gently scolded him for, and becoming familiar with the free folk he hadn’t had the opportunity to come to know when he had last been with them. Mostly, they froze in the thickness of their layers, but Hardhome had since been rebuilt since the Night King’s massacre at Hardhome, so they did have shelter from the torment of the freezing gale.

 

They laid facing one another, their lower halves entangled, a comfort filling the air in one anothers’ company. Dany grinned at him, then sucked in a breath as the baby shifted into a position that felt as if Rhaella's tiny feet punctured her ribcage. She squeezed her eyes shut and placed her hand over the small bulge that disfigured her belly temporarily, and Jon’s eyes widened at the sight below. He was _certain_ what he had seen was the outline of a foot before it moved, and Dany’s belly rounded again.

 

“I swear she knew that you were gone, because the week after I left Winterfell, she made a game of trying to crack my ribs open,” she said with a slowly-released breath she withheld.

 

Jon chuckled lightly, running his hand along her belly, noting how somehow her lush skin felt smoother as it stretched and tightened to accommodate their child. “So she has her mother’s fiery temperament. I’m at an unfair disadvantage.”

 

She watched as his fingers traced idle shapes over the swell, a flutter of contentedness in her heart. “Mm, perhaps you will put a boy in my belly before long, and then we will be even. A little Eddard, perhaps. Or a Robb, Rickon, Bran…” she trailed off, at first delighted at the idea, but having to name all of those Jon had loved that were no longer with them brought on a somber mood.

 

“I would like that,” he said quietly, giving reprieve to her fear that she might have soured the mood.”Very much.”

 

She tilted her head up and brushed his lips with hers gingerly, bringing her arm around his torso and inching closer to him. The expansion of her belly created an almost humorous gap that they couldn’t close between one another. He returned the gesture, holding the kiss for a long while before he broke away and collected her in the strong grip of his arms until they drifted off to sleep.

 

—-

 

When coronation day arrived, Dany and Jon set off into separate chambers to dress for the ceremony, and it was a few hours later that the halls were filled with guests. Their conjoined northern families had gathered amongst civilians of King’s Landing. A low hum of voices swarmed the room as a newly-appointed High Septon took his place at the top of the platform where the two new, complete thrones sat. Dany hadn’t told Jon of the change, knowing he would try to convince her to keep the Iron Throne as she had earned it. 

 

Tyrion, dressed in hues of deep greys and crimson, earning himself a look from the High Septon while he continued to pace and fidget at the cuffs of his sleeves. He placed himself beside the thrones, crossing his hands before him and mentally forcing himself to stand still. The High Septon stood beside him and a little further up, and his change in presence silenced the crowd. After what felt like many moons of waiting, the heavy doors at the entrance swung open, and behind them stood Dany. Her coronation dress was a brilliant, crimson red, a slight collar that crept up her neck, hugging her snug but without it being too tight for the comfort of her belly. A cape was clasped with a silver brooch at each shoulder and hung down to dust the floor, her hair done half up with intricate braiding at the back while the rest fell elegantly down the length of her back, a radiant contrast against the red.

 

The only sound in the hall was from Dany’s boots, and somehow it made her feel all the more anxious. Silently, without a change in her focused expression, she practiced even breathing, keeping her eyes on Tyrion who the most familiar and comforting face that stood before her. In her peripheral, Sansa’s shining auburn hair could not go unnoticed, but she feared if she allowed her attention to stray, she might collapse.The final piece of her dreams was unfurling around her. It was the _only_ dream in which she knew would come to fruition, yet somehow still felt the setting would crumble if she dared to set her eyes on anything else.

 

To add to that, the feeling of her protruding belly, fully on display now with only a couple more moons before the birth, was more palpable than ever. And soon, her husband and her king would be joining her as they accepted their anointment together.

 

Tyrion watched her with a calm, half smile on his face as he always did. Even if he felt the contents of his stomach would betray him at a moment’s notice, just as her’s did then, he did not show it. She reached the stairs and took extra care not to stumble until she stood to the left of the High Septon. After a moment, she released a long held breath and allowed her body to relax when all attention refocused on the opened doors to where Jon stood at the threshold. No matter how much time she spent with him, how acquainted she became with him, his appearance in any room never failed to steal her breath away.

 

Even more so now, knowing their difference lied in who sought a position of monarchy, and how he graciously and selflessly accepted it for her. But she knew, despite his prior hesitation, that he was more than fit for a king. They shared common beliefs and wants for the betterment of their world, and she was confident that they would do so successfully. Together.

 

He was handsomely clad in a fitted garb of blacks and greys, with hints of intertwined reds that were easier displayed each time he passed the light pouring in from one of the stain-glass windows. His hair was tied back into a secure knot. A new cloak was fastened at his right shoulder through a silver ring and fell asymmetrically over his shoulders, along with furs of black and grey. Dany’s lips parted slightly and her eyes softened when they locked eyes, and she, too, knew that he would be internally struggling to not allow his nerves to overcome him. She noted how he only looked away to observe that the Iron Throne was replaced by two identical, sturdy wooden ones, but his expression never changed.

 

They held each others gaze all the way until he ascended the stairs and stood a few feet in front of her. Only briefly did his eyes travel the length of her, a gentle smile playing on his face when he found her eyes again. She returned the gesture and it reached her eyes, until the High Septon began to ceremony. It wasn’t a particularly long one, and Dany was a little glad of that, as the heat of the room was beginning to overwhelm her.  
  
 _"May the Warrior grant them courage and protect them in these perilous times…_  
  
 _May the Smith grant them strength that they might bear this heavy burden…_  
  
 _And may the Crone, they that know the fate of all men, show them the path they must walk and guide them through the dark places that lie ahead…_  
  
 _In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons…"_  
  
The High Septon reached behind him where a plush, velvet cushion boasted both crowns. Dany’s was silver, each side accompanied by a dragon that looked as if it slithered its way along the crown until they met with a middle dragon’s head that rose above the rest. Their eyes were rubies, and both onyx gems and ruby stones dotted in diamond shapes beneath the long, thin bodies of the dragon heads. The High Septon gently placed it on top of her silver head, and it may as well have been cold water poured on her as her body quivered.  
  
 _"...I now proclaim Jon Snow of Houses Targaryen and Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, The White Wolf."_

 

The body of Jon’s crown was also silver to match, though it was without dragons. The band ended with two direwolves made of obsidian, and their eyes rubies, just as Ghost’s were. The two wolf sigils met upward at the middle. His lips parted when it melded onto his head, the entirety of his past life flashing through his eyes, and he still wondered how he got here, how fortunate and lucky and humbled he was.

 

_"Long may they reign!"_  
  
 _"Long may they reign!"_  
  
As the crowd clapped their congratulations, both Dany and Jon each drew in a deep breath and walked up the last few steps before sitting in their respective chairs, sharing a look between each other before turning to those before them to begin their new life together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear friends, I'm sorry for the longer than usual update! So, probably only one more chapter left after this, because obviously we need to meet that little baby dragon wolf ❤ I hope you enjoy all the happy content; we all know this is what they both deserved ❤ Thanks as always for tuning in!!


	22. Part XXII - Now & Always

In the remaining time before baby Rhaella would be born, Dany and Jon had been working tirelessly to mend the realm.

 

One of the first quarrels they were made to settle were the rights over lordship to the desolate Highgarden. Three noble houses presented themselves as worthy contenders: House Florent, House Rowan, and House Oakheart. The Rowans numbers had dwindled, from both old age and a lapse in conception, and Dany feared unless they made changes, their house would become extinct and they would be revisiting this very matter sooner than later. House Oakheart was bold, and much of their house was accompanied with young lords, and they had been so forward so as to set up tens on Highgarden’s land as if that would solidify their claim. Both Jon and Dany were put off entirely by the notion, and they were promptly reprimanded for their actions.

  
In the end it was House Florent, a longstanding ally of House Tyrell, who was granted Highgarden as they held the closest blood ties to its founder than the others, and would continue to be one of the most important centers for trade. Spring was beginning to creep up on them, the air, though still mild, felt different on everyone’s cold-ridden skin. Crops would soon rise above the earth and they could finally flourish, replenishing the loss of grains, gardens populated with endless produce, and wines. As such, a great number of farmers were given work to tend to the gardens once they became viable.

 

And then there were family matters that had become quite prevalent.

 

Gendry, now Lord of Storm’s End, had to work on convincing Arya to wed him, to which she finally agreed. But it was under two stipulations - she would be able to split her time between Storm’s End and Winterfell when able, and she did not wish to make the wedding a big affair, to which Gendry had no qualms. 

 

Soon after Theon had recovered, he offered his own proposal to Sansa, though did so with great care. They were both aware of his inability to bear children, something they both desired, and Sansa wished to keep Winterfell in the Stark family. However, they decided that if Arya were to have children herself, and if Gendry agreed, that perhaps they would come to adopt Winterfell as their own. If all else failed, they would, at the very least, take in orphaned children and make them their own to love and nourish. With that, Sansa agreed, knowing that she would be loved and safe with Theon. It was an unfamiliar and frightening concept to open herself up so vulnerably, but as time carried on, she healed with it. Now that they were rid of the two greatest threats, she felt herself ease, knowing that she no longer had to fear losing anymore loved ones at the snap of a finger anytime soon.

 

Sam returned to the Citadel with Little Sam to continue his studies. About every fortnight would he send a raven to Jon and Dany, sharing his progress, how Little Sam was blossoming, and all of what he had learned thus far. Sometimes he would send nearly a manuscript, entailing in-depth histories of their families, and often Jon wondered how the raven was able to carry the weight of it. Still, it elated Jon that his best friend was thriving, and that Little Sam would preserve the memory of Gilly.

 

Steadily, King’s Landing reformed. A sprawling village intermingling with markets lush with a variety of merchants from foods and jewels to armorers, with some of the finest craftsmen to work them. They gained more attraction from particular holdfasts, to bordering towns, extending to whole villages and even cities from around the realm. Many who had been displaced after the war were given fair work and wages, and Dany held a higher priority for them before anyone else. She owed it to them the most, she felt, the heart of the seven kingdoms, to prove her worth and her generosity, and Jon’s as well.

 

The common folk had accepted their new king and queen graciously, though it took time to warm to them. Slowly, they were able to visit the villages outside the city gates - at Tyrion’s request they began heavily guarded for fear of rioters or a rebellion of sorts, but the more they walked the streets with the lesser fortunate, the less protection they needed. Grey Worm and the soldiers he commanded had been assigned as their new guard, and for a long while Dany had wondered if their presence made the common folk uneasy, for many of them did not open their doors to them. Once they trimmed the numbers, they became more accepting to meet with them.  The villages were the central source for where they found some of the most supreme and willing people to take up work within the capital. 

 

Presently, Dany was pacing the long hall of Dragonstone, her hand rested at the small of her back and shallow puffs of breath escaping her lips. As an agonizing shooting pain shot through her belly, she stopped in her tracks and grunted, barely able to breathe. 

 

“Your Grace?” Maester Henly called from behind; she had hm brought to her only days ago once she began to feel distinct twinges in her abdomen, and felt that the baby had dropped lower than she had been before. He placed himself before her and he allowed her to grip onto his arm while she collected her bearings, finally able to expel a long breath. “Come, let’s get you to a bed; should we expect your husband to arrive soon? I’m afraid he will miss the birth if he does not…”

 

Dany’s face contorted into a deep frown, letting him guide her. She felt stupid for allowing Jon to go out wit hthe dragons, but she felt they had been a little more neglected as of late given her ripening condition, and Jon had been so nervous that it was making  _ her _ all the more anxious. When he offered to go out for a quick ride with them, she agreed without haste, though unbeknownst to him, and her, she had experienced her first contraction. It had been one hour now since he had left, and then she forgot that she was to alert Grey Worm when it was time so that they could wave Jon down on the cliffside.

 

“Mm-  _ oh _ …,” as she began to respond, they entered the hall leading to the bed chamber, and a cluster of hot, clear liquid pooled at her feet. Simultaneously they looked down at it, and her breathing picked up to a slight panic. Maester Henly went to usher her to the room, then hesitated, then resumed, clearly distraught with what he should do between her comfort and shouting for Grey Worm to find Jon.

 

Dany stilled him with her arms, finding it almost humorous that she was now having to comfort him as her child was readying her arrival. “Go ahead and send for him; you will not be gone long, and the wet nurse will be ready just in case. Surely she can figure out how to deliver a baby, no?” She asked a little warily, and he nodded before disappearing around the corner.

 

Carefully, Dany made headway toward her room, and when she got to the threshold of the entryway, her nails dug into the wood as the first intense wave of contraction threatened to tear her open. She doubled over, once again forgetting how to breath nor finding the strength within her to do so. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears pricking them as the pain peaked, and it felt like years passed before the wet nurse was bringing her to the bed in a stumble. Dany perched at the edge, collecting a giant heave of air when her belly loosened and the pain eased.

 

“Gods, I don’t know if I can do this, Lyra,” she breathed, while Lyra worked at quickly braiding the loosened bits of Dany’s hair into a single, long tail behind her back.

 

“No worries, Your Grace; just remember how many women have done it before you and lived to tell the tale,” she said gleefully, though Dany’s face fell, and Lyra’s hands slowed when she noticed Dany’s shoulders slump a little. “I...I’m sorry, Your Grace, did I speak out of term?”

 

A small smile stretched Dany’s lips and she shook her head. “No. Only that my own mother died birthing me, as did Jon’s. You wouldn’t have known, dear, please don’t fret about it. But...that s the exact fear that I have. Does something like that get passed down unto further generations?”

 

Still visibly embarrassed, Lyra finished up Dany’s braid before gently positioning her against the cushioned headboard. The chest beside the bed was laden with a large basin of water, several cloths, and other tools she didn’t quite recognize but did not look promising.

 

The next ebb came, and a whimper escaped her as her hands ran along the large swell of her belly, wishing she could rub it away while Lyra stood at her side and lightly massaged her shoulder to try and distract the source of agony. A cold sweat was slowly creeping up to the outermost layers of her skin, and she rested her head behind her when it eased once more.

 

“I do not know, Your Grace, but I believe you to be strong. And His Grace, as well.”

 

Maester Henly clamored into the room, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Dany wondered why a satisfied smile was on his face when she was in agony, until Jon stumbled in behind him, his chest heaving. When he found Dany had not yet delivered, his shoulders slackened and he rushed over to her side as Lyra moved aside for him, and leaned down to place a tender kiss on her lips, but it was soon disrupted as the muscles of her belly condensed once  more, this time with it radiating all the way to her lower back. Her face twisted and Jon’s eyes observed her a moment before looking over at Maester Henly, who was bringing all of his belongings to the end of the bed and situating himself there.

 

Though it was his job, Jon couldn’t help but feel a little protective over the fact that another person was studying his wife’s most private area that was not himself. But he quickly shook the thought away as he took Dany’s hand, and her fingertips dug small crescents into his skin until she was able to soothe them over with her thumb.

 

Her mouth formed an ‘o’ shape as she breathed in cool air and expelled the hot, feeling a dampening at the crown of her head. Her eyes parted open heavily. “How did you come back so fast?” She asked weakly, anticipating the next contraction, though trying her best to distract herself.

 

Jon sat at the ledge beside her. “Drogon left us about half way through and we could hear him throwing a fit. I knew something must be going on, so by the time we got back, Grey Worm was signaling for me.”

 

Dany tried to smile, but fear was beginning to overcome her. Realization struck her that if she succumbed just as her mother had, these would be her final moments with Jon, and the thought instantly brought tears to spill over her eyes.

 

“Another one?” He asked, covering her held hand with his other one.

 

She shook her head, finding that it was bubbling in her chest now and she swallowed a sob. “What if I don’t survive this?” She choked, bringing her free, shaking hand up to her eyes.

 

Jon’s face shifted into anguish for her, bringing her over to rest against him.

 

“Your Grace, I understand that you fear your fate is sealed because that particular fate was Queen Rhaella’s,” Maester Henly began, his voice a soft comfort to the voices yelling in her head with all the possibilities of what could go wrong. “But I should have you know that your mother endured many, many hardships with the loss of multiple children. She suffered many miscarriages and stillborns, and some passed a short time after birth. That is more trauma to a woman’s body to last a few lifetimes, let alone the very small timeframe she suffered sad traumas. It is very likely that her body shut down in response to her final birth. But, Your Grace, you were special; you were meant to be here. Look at all you’ve done. Both of you. Together.”

 

Overwhelmed, Dany was unsure which emotion took precedent, but she was hit hard with a longer, drawn-out contraction this time. Her head whipped back onto the headboard, and Jon shifted from one foot to the other, feeling utterly helpless. Maester Henly explained his next steps patiently, Lyra placing a drape that had been warmed near the hearth over her lap while the maester eased her legs up and out, rolling the hem of her gown up to her knees and tucking beneath the drape. Jon averted his eyes while the maester began his examination, and Dany squirmed.

 

“Ah, yes, she is significantly closer to saying hello,” the maester chirped, and Dany managed to huff a small laugh. While she was in a remission, Jon removed the pillow behind her back and slid himself behind her so that he straddled her from behind, and she relaxed her head against the softer part of his shoulder. He rested his hands at the sides of her belly, his lips along the top of her head.

 

Not long had passed before the contractions became less infrequent and only intensified, grasping desperately for Jon’s hands each time. Finally, it was time as Maester Henly could feel the baby’s head nearing its exit, and he instructed her to push with each sensation of a forming contraction. With every attempt a whimpered squeal left her lips while everything blurred behind her eyes, the excruciating pain of what felt like a searing tear almost sending her over. Jon remained behind her, urging her on as his hands firmly supported her from behind while she heaved forward with every lurch.

 

Minutes ticked by, but it felt like hours. Dany was barely able to get much pause between pushes, and at one point the maester insisted she gather herself for one wave before trying again so as to not fatigue herself.

 

More minutes, several more pushes, and Dany crying freely now while Jon had repositioned himself closer to her, assisting with encouraging words and ginger kisses at her temples. Maester Henly then announced he had the baby’s head in his hands, and from there it had gone by in a flash; first what sounded like a choking cry from the baby, followed by three more pushes until her shoulders pressed through and she slid out almost easily. Immediately Dany collapsed against Jon’s chest, and both sets of eyes searched frantically for their daughter while exchanging gasps of relief and elation.

 

Lyra took the baby into a warm blanket to clean her up before fetching a warmed one and bundling her tightly, her cries faltering into tiny whimpers. Lyra smiled brightly at them both as she gently placed her into Dany’s tired arms, then returned to the maester to help tend to Dany’s fresh wound.

 

Before Rhaella even touched her, Dany was overcome with her, but the thick mop of curled black hair atop her head almost drowned her. Jon rested his chin on Dany’s shoulder, his eyes soft and glossy, keeping one arm secured loosely around Dany while his other fingered at the impossibly tiny feet. Swallowing the thick knot in his throat, he rested his brow at the crook of her shoulder and she could feel warm tears fall down her back, leaning back enough so that she could kiss his cheek. He lifted and craned his head, capturing her lips with his in a lingering kiss, until Rhaella began to fuss.

 

A small laugh left Dany. “I suppose we’ll have to get used to that,” she murmured, returning her attention to Rhaella as Lyra came to her side, loosening the sleeve of her gown to expose a breast, then guided Dany into how to help the baby latch onto her for milk. It took a few tries, and Dany was unsure who was becoming more upset between herself or Rhaella, until she found proper suction to their relief. With every few suckles Dany flinched, her nerves frazzled and ever so much more sensitive.

 

Maester Henly had finished tending to Dany and she hadn’t noticed he had momentarily left the room, returning with a small chalice and setting it bedside. “A very small dose of milk of the poppy for your pain, Your Grace. I would offer more if I did not fear it would seep into the breast milk.”

 

“Thank you,” Dany muttered as sincerely as she could, but exhaustion rung in her voice. There was an ease at her breast and a small huff of laughter through Jon’s nose as she looked down to see Rhaella had drifted off into a deep slumber, a dribble of milk along her chin. Dany dabbed at it and recovered herself, running a finger over the smooth, fresh skin.

 

“Now may be a good time to wash up if you’d like, Your Grace. We will strip your linens for fresh, warmed ones,” the maester said softly so as to not startle Rhaella.

 

Although the thought of moving seemed a daunting task, Dany disliked the idea of laying in a soiled bed and clothes, so Lyra went to take the baby before Dany gently stopped her and redirected Rhaella to Jon. He seemed almost unsure of himself at first when Dany turned to place the bundle in his arms; Jon was not the most mountainous of men, more of a sculpted, lean man, but even still Rhaella seemed to shrink in size in his hold.

 

In the background Lyra prepared a fresh bath for Dany and Dany and Jon moved slowly to the small chaise at the foot of the bed, a towel beneath her. It was unbearable only to walk the few feet she needed to get there, and she hoped that the medicine would give her at least some relief. Where she sat, she gawked at Jon’s arms cradled firmly around Rhaella’s sleeping body, and he did not avert his eyes from her for many moments until Dany guided him by his elbow to her, placing a soft kiss on his lips. She had never seen anything sos beautiful and perfect in her life than Jon holding their daughter. His face was both soft but sober, and nothing short of love.

 

Maester Henly collected his things and made his exit, promising a follow up once she was settled again. Lyra brought over a small cot to lay beside the bed, then helped Dany back to her feet and Dany shuffled across the way to the tub, wincing each time her thighs chafed the tender wounds. 

 

“Lyra...How long does it take a woman to recover from all of this? The pain is maddening…,” Dany whimpered, and allowed Lyra to do all the work of disrobing her.

 

“It will be day by day, Your Grace, but likely a few weeks before it mends enough. And a few weeks after that before it is considered what it once was, assuming no complications. So, if I may be so bold, the King must be kept at arms length for a while.”

 

Dany’s cheeks flushed and she looked over her shoulder to catch Jon’s perplexed expression matched her own, and she couldn’t help but to chuckle nervously at Lyra’s boldness. She accepted a hand, grimacing and groaning when just the simple act of lifting her leg over the edge into the warm water sent a shockwave through her body. At long last she was able to submerge herself down to her shoulders, a pleasant rush of a chill enveloping her in its heat.

 

While Lyra tended to her, scrubbing gentle circles in her loosened hair, Dany never took her eyes off of Jon who was fixated on finding the most comfortable position to hold Rhaella. She began to fuss and Dany could see that he did his best not to panic, gently hushing her, sitting and standing and shifting.

 

“Babies tend to soothe against their own parents flesh, Your Grace. If you’d like to try that, I can leave you to your privacy,” Lyra said, rinsing Dany’s soapy hair into a basin on the floor.

 

Dany knew that Jon would be too timid to dismiss Lyra given she was assisting with extra hands, so Dany politely excused her, lightly squeezing her hand with a reassuring thankfulness. When she exited the room, Jon put Rhaella on the bed and she was not sure she had ever seen Jon shed his gambeson and underclothes so fast. Rhaella’s volume was slowly increasing, even more flustered that she was without her father’s warmth, and once Jon’s top was bare, he scooped her up and pressed her against his chest.

 

Sure enough, her crying died down to small purrs and then gradual coos. Jon sighed with relief, slowly walking her to where Dany lay in the tub, sitting himself in the chair once used by Lyra. Dany smiled warmly, reaching up a dry hand to stroke Jon’s hand. Finally he made eye contact with her, and she couldn’t help but to let out a small laugh at how astonished he looked. Rhaella appeared even smaller against Jon’s muscled chest and arms.

 

“She loves you,” Dany murmured, observing the tiny curled baby fists that rested at Jon’s breast.

 

“Then I suppose I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he said quietly, his lp twitching into a crooked smile. “To be loved by two of my favorite girls in the world.”

 

\---

 

The morning that followed had arrived in somewhat of a slow blur; Rhaella had woken nearly every two hours for a feed or a change or a walk about the room, and though they could have called on Lyra to take over, both Jon and Dany had agreed they wished to be as hands-on as possible. They wanted to raise her and watch her grow as they did; there would be plenty of moments when they would be called to duty and she would become bored with them, and as they each had very little to no time with their own parents, it was vital they soaked up every second with her.

 

Jon had woken with Dany each time, and she had insisted that he get rest while she put Rhaella to her breast, but he argued that it wouldn’t be fair. Still, she insisted on it, urging him to be at least  _ slightly _ rested so when it was his turn he was not stumbling over his own feet. So, Jon agreed, but was adamant that when Dany’s part was complete, he would take over. Stubbornly, Dany accepted, though mentally blamed her exhaustion for giving in.

 

It was still a few weeks before they found their footing and a pattern that worked. One week after the birth, they were returned to King’s Landing as a trio, and Maester Henly returned to Winterfell while Dany was appointed a new and unfamiliar maester in the capital. If she hadn’t been so disoriented, she would have argued against it.

 

Some nights Dany had been so overcome with fatigue, especially in her recovery time, he himself lay Rhaella at her mother’s breast and was able to lul her back to sleep. Many times Dany barely moved an inch, but Jon was happy to help in any way he could. Their deprivation of rest was proving difficult when it came to making political decisions, however; either both of them would highly disagree on something, or one or both of them made no logical sense with what they were attempting to convey. Most of the time it was Tyrion who had to simmer them down or excuse them both from meetings until they had clear heads again.  _ He _ was beginning to feel like the third parent, they had exhausted him so much. 

 

By week five, Tyrion took matters in his own hands, even at the risk of being scolded. He had met with a handful of potential candidates who could offer their help to the king and queen so that they may be brought to some form of the living again. He weeded out the lousy ones, the ones who only wanted a private look into the personal lives of the monarchy, and those who were less than compassionate for children.

 

It came down to a mother-daughter pair; he met with them on four separate occasions to cover all of his bases and ensure that he was not bringing any danger into their lives, and every time he was more than satisfied with them. They help no bias against any particular houses or status, and were each well adept in handling children and all that surrounded them. Tyrion omitted the possibility of caring for Rhaella just yet, for he would  _ not _ likely make that decision for fear of losing his position as Hand. For now, they would work around the new mother and father, and once Dany and Jon grew used to their presence, then Tyrion would try to convince them to allow Rhaella in their care as the baby learned to sleep for longer periods in the night without need of her mother’s milk.

 

And it didn’t take long. Two weeks in, Rhaella’s stretch of sleep stretched to four hours, and after a wary start, Dany and Jon felt Rhaella was in safe hands. The maids were never far; they took up the room beside her parent’s, so if they needed reassurance in the night, they only had to walk to the neighboring door, or sometimes hear her cries through the walls.

 

\---

 

Three months on, Spring was filling the air with scents of flowers and fresh winds.

 

Tyrion adopted more duties so that Jon and Dany might have a small break from their own. Sansa and Theon had arrived to King’s Landing only days prior to meet their niece, and as Rhaella did with just about everyone, she warmed to them immediately. Her eyes were lilac like her mother’s, but she boasted the thick, curly raven mane of her father; it was a striking appearance.

 

After many, many goodbyes, Dany and Jon kissed Rhaella until her skin grew pink from contact and Sansa nearly had to escort them out the door. They were to set sail to the sea for a very brief recess from their burdens, but it would be the first time they were separated from Rhaella that wasn’t just in the night. Once the ship was packed and ready, they set off just before evening fell.

 

It had been so long since they had wakeful time along together that it was  _ almost  _ awkward, until they were able to be brought into their regular manner of speaking, even if most of it involved gushing over Rhaella. The sun was just beginning to set when they sat for dinner near the bow of the ship. Nothing but an endless bay surrounded them, sometimes carrying the cries of the dragons somewhere off in the distance where they, themselves, would be hunting. They ate in a peaceful silence, but a lingering tension was all too discernible between them. Jon’s eyes would flicker to Dany’s face briefly, returning to his plate while Dany’s followed suit.

 

It remained this way until both of them had stopped eating almost in unison, with less than half of their plates to show for the time they spent there. Jon internally grew frustrated, and finally he looked up at her only to see she had been watching him.

 

“Dany,” he muttered, his eyes graduating down to her lips. They parted slightly at his gaze, and  without warning, Jon half leapt across the small table and secured his hand behind her neck while smashing his mouth onto hers. She reciprocated without pause, rising from her seat and moving until they were around the table and tangled up in each others messy embrace. Jon sighed against her; there had been no nights of passion since the birth besides quick pecks on the cheek when one fell asleep before the other. It had been impossible between Dany’s extensive healing, important matters they both needed attending, and lack of sleep. The familiar feeling of her plush lips could have done him in, and he almost thought to be embarrassed by the rapid thickening between his thighs.

 

Already Dany’s tongue found his, and she was sure their mouths could not have been any more devoured by the other. Her fingers grasped at the tunic he wore, urging him backward into the hall until they were secured in their bed cabin. The moment the door shut, Jon had her pinned against the wall, his hands wandering as if this had been the first time they had explored her. She released a lingering groan as he did so, his greedy hands hiking up the hems of her summer dress so that they could travel along her thighs. In unison she shoved his tunic up and allowed her hands to become re-acquainted with him again; he was still toned and muscled, but a little softer, a welcome reminder that he no longer was required to be on a battlefield under the glare of death.

 

Somehow that made her need of him that much stronger, and they broke apart for the first time so that he could help her get his top off. After a few gasps of air, he returned to her, but this time he was slower, more deliberate in his movements. Both hands cradled either side of her face, light as air, his thumbs on her cheeks.

 

“Jon,” she whispered, moving only so that she could see his eyes. “I’m afraid of what you will see beneath my dress.”

 

A small frown creased his brow. “I don’t understand.”

 

Her eyebrows raised only slightly. “It’s changed since the birth…”

 

Eyes softening at the realization of what she meant, a small smile pulled his lips. “You would think me that small-minded? Do you expect me to storm out of this room when I see all of what your body endured to carry our child?”

 

Shame swept over her; of course he wouldn’t think twice about it, but it was something that had swallowed up some of her thoughts over the last few months when she saw herself in the mirror. She shook her head at him in response, and he placed a tender kiss on her once more, then led her to the bed where she sat while he stayed on his feet and began to disrobe. Her eyes studied him heatedly until he was completely bare to her, but she didn’t long to look as he kneeled down and began to do the same with her beginning with her sandals.

 

As he rose, his hands moved with him along the length of her legs, and a shiver coursed through her from head to toe. HIs mouth collected hers and she straightened herself while her gown was lifted over and tossed idly to the floor. When he separated from her, he was pleased to find she had gone without any smallclothes, and he kissed a warm, firey trail beginning at the hollow of her neck, to the space between her full breasts, paying extra care to her abdomen. It was marked from the stress of the skin making room for her previously growing womb, and was less snug than before, but his shameless thoughts of what he wished to do to her never changed.

 

He brought himself back up to kiss her gingerly. “You’re perfect,” he murmured against her lips, crawling up onto his knees and shifting them so they laid on their sides.

 

Dany hung her leg over his hip and he pulled her near flush against him, deepening the kiss until their tongues danced once more, lapping at her lips every so often. She reached her hand down until it gripped around his cock; it felt hot and heavy in her hand, and she began to pump him only in shallow, soft bursts. His mouth parted and he forgot how to breathe, trying his best not to dig his fingernails into her ribcage. He muffled a groan into her mouth, her grip tightening and strokes increasing. His hips twitched subconsciously in response, and his teeth clamped onto her lip while he tried to concentrate himself away so as not to spend prematurely.

 

Dany used her elbow to hike herself a little further up the bed, then circled the head of his cock along the weeping heat of her entrance, and his back arched into her, though she kept hm where she wanted him. A small whimper escaped her lips and he nuzzled into her neck, his face strained in a torturing, pleasant agony. Very, very gradually she brought him in further, then began to sway her hips in little circles, and she was certain he would release himself at any moment, but he managed to hold off.

 

“Gods, Dany, I don’t...mmm,” he pressed his lips together firmly as she sunk herself halfway over his cock, and this time it was she that was breathless. She released her hand from him and gripped at the muscles of his back while he took over; she felt more constricted than he was previously used to, and he didn’t wish to bring her any pain, so his thrusts came with patience and intentionally slow rhythm.

 

Jon rolled her onto her back below him, feeling he had more control than on their sides, using her legs to spread hers further apart. He ran his hand along where they were joined and used the lubrication to saturate her hardened ball of nerves, using the flat of the pads of his fingers to massage circles over it. Dany’s knees shot up further toward her and she drew her head back deeper into the pillow, an open-mouthed groan escaping her. He caught it with his mouth and lingered there as he next push in made their pelvises meet, and he was forced to delay, the threat of his own culmination pulsing from the base to tip.

 

She pushed her hips up and back, inciting her desire for more of him, to which he obliged and quickened his pace, nibbling along her jaw until he could barely keep up with himself. A long growl rumbled from his chest, his breath suspended, and Dany’s fingertips dug into his shoulder as she breathed pants against his cheek. In one stroke his cock left her only to plunge back within her walls and it undid the both of them, the invisible elastic rung taught split into a million shreds, exchanging gasps that began as wheezes and eased into gentle breaths.

 

Jon collapsed half off of her, the gentle ebb of the ship rocking them both into a comforting trance. Dany turned halfway so that she could face him, running her hand over the coarseness of his beard. Her lidded eyes absorbed his, leaning forward to plant a light kiss to his lips. “I love you,” she whispered, inching closer.

 

“I love you, Dany,” he breathed, his eyes dancing between each of hers. “Now, and always.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> Before anything else, I'd like to thank EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU!!! To those that commented, kudos'd, bookmarked, subscribed, gave it a shot and whether you stuck around or not - THANK YOU! This fic was my baby and helped in the grieving process of the shite end that the show gave us. I truly hope it maybe gave you a little bit of joy too. I love this fandom and how passionate it is.
> 
> Onto the next one!
> 
> ❤❤❤


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